Hathaway&Dragomir: White Knight
by Selenolatry
Summary: In the sequel to Hathaway&Dragomir, human detective Rose Hathaway is at odds with another killer, this one tied to Lissa, her best friend and medical examiner. Time is of the essence and Rose must work quickly to track the white knights, bring down the Strigoi mafia taking over Boston, and find out how much she's willing to sacrifice- for love and death walk a thin, blue line.
1. Prologue: Death's First Dance

**5 Years Ago**

The smell of daisies and aftershave vanished as I left the Virginian mountains to step foot in the busy streets of Boston. I sucked in a deep, much-needed breath. The spring air was cooler up north and perfumed with mist, clinging to my skin like morning dew. While some part of me was dazed by the long bus ride and still bothered by my break-up with a Russian God, I shoved that bleariness aside. I had to be alert. Most of all, I had to be put together, for Lissa's sake. The _nazar_ still burned in my pocket, but so did the _chotki_ on my wrist. They were reminders of the most important people in my life. Dimitri and Lissa.

Maybe that's how it would always go. Maybe I would always have to choose between them.

I had already made my decision, though. For now, there was no turning back. "Better get moving then, Rose," I muttered to myself. Still lugging my suitcase, I skipped rekindling with my college apartment and headed straight for the familiar, ivy-laced townhouse on Third Street.

Lissa hadn't left Avery's doorstep. It had been a week since she called me with the news, but she seemed unable to drag herself away from her sister's crime scene, the yellow police tape hanging in ribbons behind her. There was a haunted, dazed air to her, her eyes unfocused and not noticing me until I was standing right in front of the three-step staircase. When she saw me, she was startled, blinking a few times like she expected me to turn into smoke. Luckily for both of us, I didn't. Her hand flew to her mouth. While I'd said I was coming "soon" she clearly hadn't expected this soon. I hadn't seen her in months; she probably thought she was seeing a phantom.

And I have to say, I'd be lying if I didn't feel the same. Still, I managed to conjure up my best, crooked grin in greeting. That was all it took. The incredulity melted and Lissa stood long enough to throw her arms around my neck, already choking on sobs. At first, I thought it was about Avery. Then she said, "I knew it. I knew you'd come back."

"Of course I came back," I murmured into her shoulder. "I promised I would." It all seemed surreal. My best friend. I had my best friend back. If I had her, I could recover from the heartbreak from Dimitri. It strengthened my resolve and helped affirm that I'd done the right thing by dropping out of the academy to return home. I could go on with my life, even if I was leaving a crucial piece behind. Even if I didn't fully want to.

As she pulled back, I saw the toll her sister's death was taking on her. Dark rings were etched under her green eyes and her normally pristine hair hung limp. "Christ Liss, how long have you been here? Doesn't that gig behind you have a shower and running water?"

Though she smiled slightly at the old nickname and my trademark humor, it slipped just as quickly as it had appeared. Something seemed to dawn on her, contradicting my questions with her own. "Oh God, how did you get here? I thought your headmistress was, like, your Christian Orthodox jailer."

Ah, Kirova. We'd never been chummy, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy seeing her startled visage when I turned in my resignation papers. Our argumental bitching and lecturing sessions aside, she had been aghast at me dropping out when I was "the best of the best". Yeah. I really took a smug satisfaction in that one. Too bad that reasoning hadn't gotten me out of suspension when I'd accidentally snapped Jesse Zeklos's wrist in the fall during practice.

Mulling it over for a minute, I decided talk of bailing out of my career and breaking limbs probably wasn't going to lighten Lissa's mood. Better not to open that Pandora's Box for now. I shook my head, my dark ponytail clocking behind me. "That's not important. Come on, let's get inside. Even without the jet lag, I have to stretch my legs."

I could see she wanted to press more, but exhaustion waned her off the dwindling subject. It really didn't matter, anyway. We both knew I'd fight tooth and nail if I really wanted to get back home. Wiping her last tears away, she trailed up the staircase. Although it felt like there were a million words to be said between us, we remained quiet as we entered the solemn house.

The police tape outside had been right to ward off civilians and the weak-stomached. The town house screamed _Criminal Minds_. Even though Avery had been removed and the police had combed through the area, the cleaning crew hadn't, and months of FBI training didn't stop my stomach from rolling as I entered the living room. Dry blood stuck to the carpet in hardened, almost-black patches, death permanently staining the white floor. There were signs of a struggle sprinkled throughout the premises, while reports, files boxes, and gruesome photos from the murder scattered the table we used to drink coffee at. All of it was a distant memory now. With the pressing, eerie air of the room, the echos of those days were barely palpable. They'd become ghosts, like Avery.

Both of our gazes averted from the blood spills, and I found myself meandering to the coffee table instead, leafing through the files. It wasn't pretty, but it was a distraction, and one that let my cryptic, detective reasoning shine through at that. No amount of distraction could completely banish my humanity, though. I knew I'd break down if I caught sight of her corpse. Careful to shuffle those photos away, I stuck to the medical examiner's report to fill me in on what I needed to know.

_Avery Dragomir. 22 Years. Caucasian. Female. HCL3 Brown Hair. OCH2 Blue Eyes._

_Cause of Death: Blood Loss/Blunt Force Trauma. Homicide._

_Time of death roughly 22:30. Victim killed in home. No sign of break-in. No witnesses. No murder weapon found. Found 8:23 next morning by family friend. Autoposy performed 14:54._

_Lacerations on hands, scrapes on right arm, and bruising around neck show signs of struggle. Skin samples under fingernails inconclusive. No further DNA samples. Bruising around neck shows cause for delayed airway obstruction, and explains thyroid and cricoid cartilage fractures. Strangulation was temporary, however, and not the cause of death, most likely used to incapacitate victim. Severe blunt force trauma to the left side of cranium fully incapacitated victim. Bled out 7-10 minutes after infliction. _

My gut wrenched, sickened. I closed the folder. Still trying to keep the tone light in this suffocating aura to keep up my lofty reputation, I commented to Lissa, "I see you set up camp here, General." It explained why she still hung around this Magic Treehouse, with or without running water.

Lissa was in medical school, but with her stellar grades, she had all but been guaranteed a spot as an ME in the Boston Homicide unit. I knew she worked on cases here and there in preparation, but I couldn't imagine they would happily hand over their entire evidence surplus. She walked over to the wall near the table, sitting in the window seat. While we still said little, we stuck close, needing the comfort of another human being. The afternoon light made her curtain of pale, blonde hair look like a mix of a bridal veil and halo. Even her heavenly appearance couldn't mask the semi-sheepish glint in her eyes, however. "Actually, they won't let me on the case, let alone near it," she admitted.

I arched an eyebrow. I had to admit, I was surprised. I wasn't going to complain about her possibly breaking the law, though. Far from it. From my perspective, it was healthy outbranching, even if her superiors would disagree. "You have, like, the entire department here."

"Mia... pulled a couple strings."

"Is that the detective you were telling me about?"

Lissa nodded. From the rumors she'd leaked over the phone in my absence of the homicide unit, Mia Rinaldi was one of the members I held in high regards. According to Lissa, Mia was a small but fiery detective, not afraid to push for what she believed. She sounded like a splitting image of me, honestly, and that was pretty awesome.

I glanced back at the report I just closed. Although I wasn't keen on it, I pushed forward and continued rummaging through the hard evidence. If I was really going to barge into PD headquarters and demand to be put on this case as a drop-out FBI agent, pursuing it without Lissa, I had to know what I was getting into. Mia's influence and Lissa's recommendation probably only carried so far.

Just when I was about to think that nothing else stuck out in the bleak sea of homicide mystery, a flash of white caught my eye. It gleamed behind rippling plastic in the evidence bin, poking out the top of the bleak cardboard. Even with nausea still consuming me at the whole scene, curiosity pricked at my fingertips in rivalry, courtesy of the police skills continually nailed into me. Taking the plunge, I picked the bag up. Slowly, hesitantly, my curled fingers unraveled around the evidence fragment.

I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. I stared at the piece of the murder puzzle, bemusement flickering over my features, faintly staring back at me through the distorted, carnival mirror of the plastic. It was a white knight. A chess piece. Blood stained the glossy, light surface like it had slipped into a red, rusted robe overnight.

Before I could indulge further in the strange, misplaced enigma, Lissa's phone buzzed in her pocket, a soft drone in the quiet room. I watched curiously as she picked up, clearing her throat and answering, "Dr. Dragomir." I couldn't make out the words on the other end, but their impact was clear enough. Little by little, her already pale face drew graver. The faint color in her cheeks drained. It was a work call. Looks like our private bonding time would have to wait a bit longer. "I understand. I'll be in soon." She closed the phone shut.

"I thought you weren't on the case."

"I'm not," she sighed. "It was for another homicide."

I grimaced. I hated seeing Lissa stressed, and from her stricken demeanor, I knew it had somehow struck a chord. "Was it the same M.O.?"

"No," she said quietly, her jade eyes fogged. Normally, I could decode Lissa in an instant. Not this time, though. For a few moments, her thoughts were out of my grasps as she was lost somewhere beyond me. "This unsub used a scalpel."


	2. Care to Play?

**Present Day**

I'd be lying if I said I didn't fantasize about having a hot sex scene in the shower. Let's face it: everyone does. And when your guilty pleasure is cheap romance novels and your daily pool of male companions consists of serial killers, gang bangers, and an FBI agent who's practically death in a cowboy duster, it's easy to imagine something positive during the gloomy workday of a homicide detective. Like, say, having said man's duster be the one hung up on your bathroom hook.

This, however, was probably the farthest thing from a romantic bathing session and _not _what I had asked for.

"Son of a bitch," I swore loudly, not caring if I disturbed her own morning routine as I mercilessly cranked the red handle in the shower. Nothing changed. Ice water funneled from the lowest depths of the Arctic continued to gush out of the shower head, etching down my skin and making my muscles tense just as relentlessly. It was a miracle I didn't break the nozzle off.

I really needed to get my own place and water company.

"Oh for the love of- Lissa, your shower sucks!"

"At least mine works," her rich voice chimed back.

"That's the only perk of it right now," I mumbled while fighting the urge to swear again, wishing Dimitri had taught me cooler Russian curses for these situations. Standing there in my best friend's shower, feeling like an idiot as the cold seeped into my bone marrow, it was through sheer will power I managed to stay in. If I could hang out with Dimitri on a snowy roof in November, I could handle an April shower, pun or no pun. That's what I told myself, anyway. With that logic in mind, eventually my muscles unwound, and I became mobile enough to rinse out my long mane, my hair practically black against my almond skin. The cold I could still live without.

Even though Lissa's posh townhouse screamed money, courtesy of her family name and bank account, the hot water thing had been a problem for the past four days. I guess I shouldn't complain too much. A cold shower was better than no shower at all. My own bath tub, laying unused in my apartment complex, was out of action for the time being while my land lord tried to fix the mass plumbing issue plaguing his establishment. Lissa had been kind enough to rent out her place so I could rest and cleanse without worry. Still, there were some serious downsides to sleeping over at her place.

And I mean _serious _downsides.

As I wrapped up my shower and shut off the water, I stepped out of the tub only to jump at my extra male company and bang my shoulder on the side tile, stifling another swear. "Son of a- _Lissa_!"

"What?" Lissa exclaimed from the kitchen while he stood there, rooted, staring at me with blank eyes. Somehow that amped up the "creepy" meter by ten fold and I scrambled to cover myself with a towel, glaring at him. His expression never changed. "Are you okay, Rose?"

"No I am not okay! Get! Shoo!" He didn't budge. "Lissa, get your turtle out of here!"

Bass the Tortoise, a 100-pound weight of a shell and the farthest thing from a Boston pet, greeted me at the shower's stoop, standing motionless next to the sink. I didn't know when he'd come in, and frankly, I didn't really care. That didn't change the creepy factor. Never one for animals, especially ones that waited on the other side of the shower curtain like a killer from an old Hitchcock movie, I gave him another haughty leer before stalking out, and into the guest bedroom.

When I got to the kitchen after, fully dressed in a tee and slacks, Lissa was waiting on the other side of the marble isle, looking concerned. "What on Earth happened?"

"You need to get that thing a cage, that's what happened." I pushed back my wet, plastered hair, my short nails combing through the already-curling strands. "The sight of me undressed is now permanently engraved in your turtle's mind."

"He's a tortoise."

"_So_ not my point Liss."

She smiled and ignored my unamusement, pouring a cup of warm liquid from the kettle. She handed it to me across the marble. I took it by instinct. "If he's checking up on you, it means he likes you," she said. I scoffed in response. Oh how I doubted that. I'd dealt with enough serial killers to know blank eyes are the epitome of contempt. I didn't even want to think about the day I walked in to find Bass somehow wielding a kitchen knife. I took a sip of the scalding, mahogany liquid while Lissa continued to talk, thinking little of either until the drink hit my taste buds. I cut off whatever else Lissa was saying by promptly spatting it back into the cup, coughing and gripping the counter. "What?" Lissa exclaimed for the second time that day.

"What _is_ this?" I exclaimed back.

"Herbal tea. It's good for you,"she tacked on when she saw my face the moment she said the name of the drink.

"Are you trying to poison me? Ugh, God, it's like licking the bottom of a lawnmower." I set down the cup and proceeded to run my tongue under water from the sink facet. For some reason, that water was perfectly warm. Damn logistics. I rinsed out the last of the vile, non-coffee substance and wiped off my mouth, making sure to make various faces of disgust. While I needed at least a pound lump of sugar in my coffee, right then, I would have preferred to drink black and cut sugar like cold turkey. And that was seriously saying something. Maybe I'd gotten hooked on caffeine more than I realized. As I straightened, I was distracted from making another wry comment about her trying to put me in the morgue, noticing Lissa's attire for the first time. I'd been too haunted by her tortoise and poisoned morning beverages to notice before. Shutting off the water and looking at her up and down, my face twisted into another mask of disbelieve, still wiping off my lips. "More importantly, _what_ are you wearing?"

"What? I'm going jogging." Lissa proceeded to jog in place for five seconds to demonstrate, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her. I almost wanted to make fun of her just for that. It looked like an outfit straight out of a Nike's commercial. She sported a fitted camisole, a $50 pair of running shorts, brand new shoes- and so help me God- a sweatshirt tied around her waist.

"That doesn't really answer my question. At all. What's with that get-up? Why didn't you just go buy an old shirt from Goodwill?" When I went jogging (boy, was that a punchline in itself), I flaunted a beat-up tee from my FBI training days and shorts from 9th grade gym.

"The saleswoman said this would all improve my performance."

I wasn't even going to point out the flaw in taking advice from a person that pushed products to keep their job. "I still don't get why you're suddenly inspired to take up track again. Are you trying to be extra-healthy or something?" A realization hit me. "Is that why you were trying to poison me with green tea?"

"Hey, it's good to be healthy," she protested, showing great restraint by not explaining how green tea was far from a medical toxin. "It was my New Year's Resolution to get in shape, remember?"

"Oh yeah. Only took you till..." I checked the clock. "April. You're on a roll, Liss."

"Better than you and your resolution to stop drinking beer." I wish I had a good retort for that, but she did have a point. No roundabout Rose logic could slip me past the obvious. Lissa retied her already-perfect ponytail, the size zero, drop-out model far from the type that needed to jog. "So? You want to go with me?"

"No, I'd rather take my chance with your lurking sea turtle, thanks. Besides, I can already feel the herbal tea making an effect." And by effect, I meant slowly killing my caffeinated soul. No need to tell a doctor that, though.

Lissa simply shrugged and started to head out when she suddenly stopped and frowned. Just as her jogging attire had taken awhile to register with me, she was scrutinizing me, seeming to pick up on something. "Are you alright?"

I blinked, caught off guard. "Uh, yeah. Besides the cold water, herbal tea, and creepy land animal thing? Just fine. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," she said, before pausing, almost immediately contradicting herself. "You just look... tired." From the tone in her voice, that sounded like the most gentle way she could put it. I hesitated a few moments before making a flippant remark, blaming the lighting and early wake up call. Lissa picked up on the fact she shouldn't probe too much, and promptly let it go as well. I immediately felt bad. I didn't like making my best friend feel like she was walking on egg shells- but hey, a small voice said inside my head, anything to drop the subject. After reminding me to lock up and making a mushy goodbye to her tortoise, Lissa left the house for her jog. I took the liberty of dumping out the rest of her kettle down the drain the moment she was out the door. Lord knows I wasn't going anywhere near that again. Weariness tugged at me just at that small, brisk task, though, and I had to stop to yawn. Lissa had certainly been on to something.

Though I hated talking about it, I still rarely got sleep, inside or outside of my apartment. I didn't tell anyone the source behind my insomnia. Most rarely noticed. So why speak out?

Telling my squad of criminal hunters about my visions of a ghostly still bedroom, a blood-stained scalpel, and fogged, jade eyes would only score me an appointment with Dr. Olendzki, the department's therapist. Her answering-every-question-with-another-question method would only serve to plummet my mood more. Thanks but no thanks. Rekindling memories of my almost-murder over morning coffee was not something I wanted to jut into my daily routine. My palms, marred by faint, X-shaped scars, ached at the thought of it, and of him. Yeah. Definitely better to just stick with insomnia.

Luckily, I didn't dive into memory lane right then. That's when my non-killing male company happened to arrive. Too bad I hadn't anticipated any company to begin with.

"Oh Hath-away?" a sing-song voice called, paired with a rhythmic tapping on door. It was a very familiar voice.

I turned toward the direction of it, making the same face I had when the herbal tea hit me. "You've got to be kidding me," I muttered. I knew most girls would melt into a puddle at the thought of a surprise visit from a guy while fresh out of the shower. Me? Not so much. For as many times as he's mercilessly bantered with me, 9 out of 10 times even dropping an insinuating comment, I knew he wouldn't actually show up to court me with a box of chocolates. This was a work call. I padded over towards the door, calling, "What are you doing here, Ashford?"

"Well that's some welcoming" he commented. "I was in the neighborhood. I tried calling you at least 8 times- you didn't pick up. Alberta wants us in early."

I frowned at that, glancing back over my shoulder at the clock. 7:30 AM. It was almost an hour earlier than I'd normally go in. If it wasn't for the insomnia thing and Lissa's insane early-bird habits, I would be dead asleep around this time. "Yeah, well, I was in the shower," I said, not keen on going into the office yet, awake or not. "Do you want me to answer the door in a towel and messy bun?"

There was a pause. "That depends, do you want me to die a happy man or not?"

Oh Mason. There was a sexual harassment charge just looming on the horizon for him. I sighed and leaned against the wood door. I didn't bother asking him how he knew I was here; the day my water supply got cut off, I'd made sure to gripe about it to half the homicide unit. My yelp have happiness when Lissa invited me over had startled that same half. A sullen, teenage part of me half-wished our death-in-a-cowboy-duster FBI agent would have extended the offer back then, but again, some shower was better than no shower at all. Beggars couldn't really be choosers. "Is the work call important?"

"Deadly urgent," he said gravely and melodramatically.

"You're just saying that because you want to see the towel."

"Innocent until proven guilty, remember?"

A ghost of a smile hinted at my lips as I caved and straightened, opening the door. I had to admit, I had to fight back a laugh when my partner's happy demeanor fell the moment he caught sight of me, fully dressed in way-too-covering clothes. Mason had always been cute, in a boyish kind of way. His tall figure took up a good portion of the door frame, his red hair gleaming in the sunlight, while his blue eyes swept over me. He would look a lot cuter without the sullen teenage look. "Problem, Mase?"

"You're so mean in the morning."

"Hey, you're the one hoping to catch sight of me in a bath towel."

"And you're the one who got my hopes up."

My smile cracked wider at that. It was hard to keep a straight face with him around. We'd been partners for almost 3 years and had always meshed well together, our bantering included. After I propped open the door with my foot, I ducked back in long enough to grab my badge and gun. I have to say, they really complimented the lamp and expensive vase on the breakfast bar. "So?" I asked, changing the subject from bath towels and messy buns. "Why does Alberta want us in?"

"She didn't say."

"Gee, that's promising." Sure. That was one way to put my Tuesday morning. "Lissa's out right now, jogging. We should probably catch up to her and let her know we're being pulled in."

"Oh, don't worry about that," he waved off casually. "I saw her on the side road and pulled over long enough to giver her the rundown. She blew off my offer to hitch a ride. She said she wanted to do some mile sprint to the office instead."

"Of course she did." Meanwhile, I was tempted to pull over at a Dunkin' Donuts and get a large coffee with three Boston Cremes. I was such a golden member of the gym. We left after that, pausing long enough to lock up the townhouse before jumping into Mason's old dinosaur of a car. I didn't even bother stopping him when he pulled onto the highway, rolled down his window and sang terribly off-key to some ACDC song on the radio, the singer screaming about TNT. I knew it was impossible to win with Mason, so long as this was his car. I still wish I had some TNT to blow up this radio, though. Not even bothering to protest, I did my best to tune my partner out instead and pressed my cheek against the window, absentmindedly glancing out at the rolling, gray clouds and letting my weary mind wander. The wind wafting through the open window hummed with static and smelled of wet Earth. Mildly, I wondered if it would storm.

Storms weren't rare in Boston. The weather was known for being up and down, an unpredictable roller coaster with all sorts of twists and turns- kind of like my haywire life. Maybe that's why I'd always resonated with the northeastern city.

Earlier in the fall, I'd faced a particular run of events that had managed to blindside even me. The biggest development was the reappearance of Victor Dashkov, my personal stalker and would-be-killer, who broke out of maximum security in October in an attempt to finally send me to the land of the dead.

I have to say, it was a lovely get-together. The only thing that was missing was a tea party. He'd almost killed me years ago, but I'd considered myself safe and lucky after I escaped with minimal scarring and the lunatic in jail. Maybe I ultimately _would_ have been safe the second time, too, had he not have had a reliable buddy and murderous apprentice eager to help when he escaped. The two had tricked and trapped me, but I managed to trump Victor's game again. Long story short, his apprentice wound up dead, and Victor wound up back behind bars. With the help of Dimitri, Lissa, and my department's moral support, I was recovering well from the mental and physical scars he'd left me.

And that was the second big development. Dimitri. His timing never was any good.

Dimitri Belikov was my old teacher back when I was training to be an FBI agent at an elite academy. Teacher or no, I'd fallen in love with him, and we'd gotten together despite our teacher-student status. It was awesome while it lasted. Unfortunately, we'd had a messy break-up and I'd dropped out of the academy to become a detective back home after my best friend's sister had been killed. We didn't speak for 5 years. That all changed when the Victor Dashkov case became bigger than life and our department had to reign in help from the FBI. By a sick twist of fate (helped my by other old friend and FBI contact, Mark), Dimitri wound up being our consultant. It had been a rocky first meeting and road, but we managed to patch most things up.

It helped that I was still somewhat head-over-heels for him as well. I think I would always love him, honestly. It was hard not to. Dimitri was a Russian war God, still maintaining his deadly beautiful reflexes and chivalrous attitude in his leisure time. He was really what had helped me overcome my fears in the aftermath of the Victor case, and soon enough, Victor was no longer my biggest problem outside of my dreams. Surprisingly, I found that neither were the small-town murders scattered around the city, my usual early-morning memos beginning to look mundane.

Those were now deeply overshadowed by the Strigoi. While the local mafia was growing rapidly and gaining momentum, they remained in the shadows, untraceable. It both frustrated me and reinstated my belief they were the archetype of Bram Stroker's Dracula, refusing to come out in the sunlight. That's how the pattern went after Victor: solve the cases at hand while chasing after any glimpse of the Strigoi.

They came first.

And that's how the pattern continued through fall and spring. Even now, in early April, we had little to no leads. Maybe that's why Alberta was calling us in early, I mused. Maybe she'd uncovered something.

However, as I arrived at headquarters and trailed up to the cafe, I found it wasn't my squad alone meandering the small space. Most of the homicide unit had been pulled in. Numerous men either sporting suits or casual jeans grumbled worse than teenage boys about what this meeting was about. Among the highly-testosterone crowd, I spotted Lissa alongside the coffee bar- checking her heart rate, go figure- and a petite woman with blue eyes and doll-like features. Whatever prettiness she radiated was promptly squashed by her no-bullshit aura. That was Mia for you. She hadn't changed in the least.

Mason and I walked over and joined them, but I couldn't help glancing around as we did. Though I knew I would have spotted him in seconds if he was in the room, courtesy of his height, I still couldn't help doing a double-check. Mia picked up on my solo search party instantly. "Agent Belikov's not here," she said simply when we reached her. "He has a meeting in Virginia this morning. Some FBI thing."

"I- wasn't looking for him," I said lamely. Man did that get doubtful looks around the table. Lissa in particular gave me a pointed one. She was the only one that knew my former, not-so-platonic relationship with Dimitri, besides Mark. Mason and Mia had grow a little skeptical of our closeness over the months, and I'd had to jump in and admit we used to be teacher and student, which luckily was a satisfactory answer to their curiosity. God knows I didn't want to divulge my former love life to them. "So, do you know why Alberta wants us in?" I asked Mia, pointedly changing the topic.

Mia shook her head, letting the thing with Dimitri go. "No idea. I don't think anyone knows."

"Maybe Angeline Jolie is playing a homicide cop and she wants to do a ride-along," Mason suggested, apparently formulating explanations while listening to 1970's metal groups.

"Yeah," Mia remarked dryly. "I'm sure that's what it is."

I grinned and headed toward the coffee dispensers beside them. "Hey now, be nice. There are witnesses around."

"I'm sure they'd cover for me if Mia ever tried to gag me with a tie," Mason remarked. Mia's return look spoke legends in and of itself, severely doubting Mason's statement.

I chuckled and grabbing a Styrofoam cup, knowing I'd need more juice in my system if we were going to continue bantering. Caffeine was what I needed. God knows how many work days coffee alone had sustained me. I definitely needed it after the horrific green tea event of this morning. I pushed down on the bar dispenser's handle while my partner's continued disputing one another; however, like the hot shower crank, the handle did nothing for me. No coffee came out. I stared, taken aback, and pumped again but with the same results. "Whoa, don't tell me there's no coffee here either," I exclaimed.

That caught their attention. It was like announcing to a lion pack we'd run out of antelope. Mason took the courage leap of taking a cup and even trying the decaf container. That was empty, too. As his face shifted to one of horror, I looked around and stopped one of the workers at the cafe, who was pleasantly busing tables, ignorant to the fact my day was crashing down around me. "Where's the coffee?"

"We're not allowed to serve coffee today."

I stared at her, bewildered. "Says who?"

"Morning," a new voice jumped in. All of the homicide detectives, including myself, glanced over to find our superior, Alberta, coming through the side doors. She was a seasoned police head in her early 50's and always had a facade of confidence. While she'd softened up to me and my unit in wake of the Dashkov incident, she didn't show it today. She was all business as she stood up front and crossed her arms. "Now, I'm sure you're all wondering why I called you in so early."

"Actually we were wondering where the coffee was... mam."

Alberta simply arched an eyebrow while small laughter resonated through the throng. "I'm glad you asked, Hathaway. Starting today, the detective unit will be participating in a week of health." A week of _what_? As she said that, one of the workers produced a small, propaganda-like poster, and as one, the unit groaned. Well, most of the unit, that is.

To my absolute horror, Lissa raised her hand, spurring me to lean over and mumble pointedly, "Are you raising your hand?" She shushed me just as Alberta noticed her polite intervention.

"Yes, Dr. Dragomir?"

"I'm happy to do whatever I can to help this endeavor."

"Of course you are," I muttered, wondering if she'd advocated for this whole movement behind the curtain.

"Don't be grumpy. Like I said, it's good to be healthy. You know on average, a police officer only lives 3 to 5 years after retirement."

"Seriously?" Mason, Mia, and I said in unison, caught off guard by that statistic.

Alberta nodded in satisfaction, clearly glad to have back-up. "Exactly. And I'm not going to sit around and let my people drop dead on me. So for the next week, we're going to try to pick up some better habits. Congratulations, Hathaway, Dragomir. You two have just become our new wellness captains."

_You mean hall monitors_. And when the hell did I volunteer? Lissa smiled obliviously at the new title, and the group applauded, but I knew they were all just happy not to be picked on themselves. Mason in particular seemed to take more amusement in it than anyone. I smiled tightly in response as well but managed to lean over towards Lissa at the same time. "Shoot me," I managed through my teeth.

"You know I don't carry a gun."

"Mine's back pocket, left side."

Lissa looked at me, bewildered, like I'd been completely serious. Maybe I had been. Alberta jumped in again before she could say anything else on the topic. "The cafe will provide healthy meals, Dr. Dragomir will lead us in meditation, and Detective Hathaway will lead physical activity breaks."

"Swell," I muttered, thinking Lissa should have dibs on the exercise bit. I wasn't keen on taking up the meditation in exchange, but it was something I probably could have shrugged off onto Dimitri. He _was _here to help, after all. Alberta left after that announcement, leaving the homicide unit to grumble and laugh about the new plan again.

Everyone except my team, that is. Mia got a call right then, and I knew by her visage what it was about. We had a new case at hand. Sure enough, as soon as she clicked off the phone, she instructed, "Come on. We have a body, east side."

An idea struck my suddenly, making me happily exclaim "_Yes_!" and slam the empty cup down. To hell with that, green tea, and leading a healthy lifestyle. "Quick Mase, we can stop by a Boston Joes on our way!" I didn't know if it was my mood or suggestion that sparked it, but my enthusiasm was contagious. Mason perked instantly while Mia just shook her head, exasperated, the small blonde already out the door. We all but gallivanted after her, heedless of our grim destination.

* * *

I had to admit, I felt a little bad I was taking so much enjoyment in my caramel latte while simultaneously examining a dead body. Having a career that requires seeing murdered victims daily tends to take the punch out of horror movie scenery, though. Besides, without it, I'd probably collapse on the ground beside her. I so did not want to do this here.

I stepped over a grime-covered wine bottle, glad Lissa was wearing her track shoes so she couldn't fuss over her typical, designer pumps. We were ducked underneath the belly of a bridge, heavy 16-wheelers roaring up above while a river streamed alongside the concrete. Trash littered the ground, and the young woman looked about as rough as her surroundings, her clothes torn and bare skin marred. I had to squint to make out her out. A good portion of sunlight was blocked off, the forensic photographers briefly illuminating the corpse with quick, flashing pictures. It was enough for me to see light hair and dark, doe-wide eyes, her mouth agape in frozen shock. It was also enough for me to see the bullet holes and blood rimming her chest. I guessed it was a 38-caliber bullet. I drug my gaze away to inspect the trash and cardboard boxes piled on the side of the road. "She's pretty young to be living out on the streets," I remarked.

"What makes you think she was living out here?" Mason asked.

"Well, look at her." I nodded over to the victim while Mia snapped on her gloves and bent down to her. I stayed on the sidelines, lips moving around the rim of my cup. "You don't get that dirty overnight, even if you were attacked sexually- or whatever happened to her."

"Maybe," Mia murmured, digging through the victim's pockets. She managed to uncover a wallet and handed it to Mason as she continued searching her.

Mason, having one glove on, maneuvered the measly wallet open. Its paper-thin folds were empty except for her ID, tucked in clear plastic. "Elena Conta," he read aloud before his lips formed a small grimace. "23."

Mia's eyes turned hard at that, but said nothing. Even I stayed quiet. Almost all of us had entered the police force around that age; it was hard to image dying that young. Mia, as professional as ever though, did a good job of keeping her tough bravado up. Nothing else was on the victim, and Mia ordered the photographers to get every detail, just in case. That's when Lissa took over, some of the forensic photographers giving her strange looks at the track outfit. It was a far cry from her usual get-up. Mia walked toward us on the sidelines, snapping off her gloves. "Looks like a regular homicide. 38 caliber bullets- one of the most common around." She sighed. "There's not much else we can do here. We'll try to trace down some family members for interviews and-"

"Rose?"

We all looked over, alarms instantly going off in my head. There was an anxious note in Lissa's voice as she glanced up and locked gazes with me, that angst manifesting in her demeanor. Her latex-coated glove were tilting the victim's neck to the side, exposing the back towards her. Even though she'd called me out, her next words were directed at all of us. "You're going to want to see this."

We all went over to see the source of her dismay. As one, our hearts dropped through the floor, in sync with hers. Mia swore under her breath. While the rest of the victim was coated in the industrial slime of the environment, Elena's porcelain neck was almost perfectly spotless, save for the 3 jagged and lightning-like tattoos on the back. Each formed an X that echoed the X-shaped scars on my palms. I knew hers weren't carved in by a scalpel, though. These were Molnija marks. "That's..." Mason breathed.

"There's no mistake," Mia said gruffly. "It's their mark, all right."

"This isn't one of their territories, though," he pointed out, still thrown off guard.

I stared at the marks. It wasn't the first time I'd seen them, but it was the first time I'd seen one like hers. The skin was tender around the tattoos, as if they'd recently been tampered with. I set down my coffee long enough to put on a latex glove and brush over the skin, some trapped blood underneath beginning to show early signs of bruising. "There's some different ink in here," I murmured. "It's not all black. See? These outer edges are different, like she tried tattooing over it with gold or yellow ink. Didn't seem to work too well."

"Why would she do that?"

"Why would she be out here, living on the streets and hiding in such a remote location?" I countered. No one answered. We all knew they those with Molnija marks lived in luxury, courtesy of their criminal bank account. I stood and glanced at the trash again, then back at Elena. Even without Dimitri around, I could come up with a decent explanation. "If this girl really earned those marks, she must have been in their inner group. Something must have happened that forced her to try to run from them, onto the streets, and alter her tattoos."

"But they found her," Mason said, slowly picking up on where I was getting.

"And once they found her, they killed her. I take back what I said about sexual assault. I think they added the extra mauling as a warning to anyone else who threatened to leave."

"Like a beacon of warning," he finished.

"I still want to do DNA testing," Mia insisted, Lissa nodding in agreement.

I shook my head, though. "Even if there was some sexual assault, you won't find anything," I said quietly.

"How can you be so certain?"

"Easy. This is the same thing we've seen the last 5 months. You know as well as I do the Strigoi won't leave any evidence behind." I turned and snapped off my glove. My eyes were on the cement, where a bit of dry blood had splattered. "Especially if they just decided to kill one of their own."

* * *

The Elena case nagged at me for the rest of the day. It was just another Strigoi murder that would go unsolved, into the piling number of cold cases. That was far from comforting. I'd dealt with serial killers, chasing them and being chased; I never slept well with them running around. After I wrapped up the day at the office and dragged myself back to my apartment (the weirdness of Lissa's townhouse enough to herd me out, with or without running water in the picture), I all but collapsed into bed, falling asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. I didn't sleep soundly as I had predicted, but it wasn't because of the Strigoi. No, my dreams were entirely _his _realm.

I shouldn't have been that surprised I had the nightmare again, or that I woke up in a cold sweat.

What did surprise me was what awaited me in reality.

I eyed the small, postcard-sized envelope distrustfully as it lay on the carpet, the rosy light spilling over it like an invisible sheen of blood. I glanced around curiously, but my home was settled and quiet. The envelope had been slipped under my door sometime during the waning hours of the night, the outside bear of any name or origin. There was no flower bouquet, box of chocolates, or Edible Arrangement either. I could rule out a bad attempt at a secret admirer. My wariness doubled. It didn't help I had a bad history with anonymous postal deliveries to start with.

Tentatively, I bent down and picked it up, turning it over in my hands. The outside was completely blank, the envelope and its contents as thin as a few sheets of paper. I glanced under the door and through the peephole. Nothing. Curiosity still tugging at me, I slipped my finger under the taped flap and broke the letter's seal. That's when I hesitated. I wasn't one to be paranoid, but I _was _a detective, and probably on more than one shortlist of people craving revenge. People didn't mess with anthrax anymore, right? With no roommate or pet, I turned to my fail-safe. "Think I should open it?" I asked.

The steaming coffee pot gurgled back some unintelligible reply. Ugh. I really needed a German Shepard. A German Shepard that could sniff out deadly toxins. Yeah. That would be nice.

My curiosity didn't really have the attention span for that, however. I squinted as the scarlet, early-morning light danced like a kaleidoscope against the white paper, illuminating the letter. My eyes swept over it. They weren't individual words cut from magazines and glued down like a 70's serial killer. That was a good sign. However, they addressed me by my full name and clearly knew where I lived. That wasn't such a good sign. There was only one inquiry stamped out in styled, typewriter ink.

_Care to play, Rosemarie Hathaway? _

Play? What, did they mean a game like Monopoly or Dominoes? I kicked ass at Battleship. Frown deepening, I began to investigate further when my phone rang and cut me off. "Figures," I muttered. I set the letter aside and picked up my cell, standing in front of the window with a hand on my hip. The panel was cracked open, the April air humming with static and sparking a cool sensation to creep over my skin. _The calm before a storm_. "Hathaway," I answered.

It was Mia. The phone's static hummed alongside my brewer as she gave me the rundown of our latest case to pair with Elena's, my partnering detective as business-like as ever. However, as she gave me the address, I sensed an odd, underlying note to her voice. It caught me off guard and pricked a strange memory. Before I'd stumbled on Dashkov's first murder scene in October, Stan had used a similar pitch, twisting it to mock me. '_Follow your nose, it might bring back some memories. Have fun, Hathaway.' _While Mia's efficiency was the farthest thing from snide, the chord had been struck. I knew.

This wasn't like Elena's at all. This case was different.

As the knot in my gut tugged at me and sunlight gleamed against an anonymous, taunting letter in the background, I told her quietly, "I'll be right there."

The sun shone overhead, the last remnants of snow now sad, muddy puddles sloshing along the side of the road. The alleyway had been warded off by police tape, red and blue lights flashing against the brick. While Mia had sent the call, she wasn't the one to greet me at the tape. Dimitri was. My heart jumped at the sight. He was as gorgeous as ever, his brown eyes sparkling in the bright light and clean-shaven face glowing. As I said before, our status was still complicated, but we'd managed to work through some things without couples therapy or buying a Dr. Phil book. That was definitely progress.

Still, I knew we were eons away from being where we were back at the academy. Combine that and his current, sober expression, and all of my romantic thoughts dried up. Had it not been for those factors, God knows what I would have done. _Priorities, Rose_, that stupid voice in my head chastised. "What happened?" I asked.

He beckoned and lead me back, both of us bobbing our heads under the tape. Shockingly, Lissa hadn't arrived yet. Normally she'd be an hour ahead with either a makeshift autopsy table or a makeup cart rearing to go. Maybe she was still out jogging. Whatever the case was, Mia and Mason were the only ones waiting at the crime scene. They were angled away from us currently with their heads bowed together, their bodies obscuring the victim. I was surprised to see them huddled so close. Despite my teasing and their partnering positions, they'd maintained their hate-hate relationship almost flawlessly. Some days they deserved an Emmy for their heartfelt performance. That's when I noticed the harsh tension crackling between them, their bodies rigid; they weren't discussing late-night moves and carnival rides, but were arguing in low voices. "You have to warn her," Mason insisted. I recognized the blue fire in his eyes instantly. It only came out when a threat presented itself. A threat like, say, Victor Dashkov. My stomach rolled.

Mia's azure orbs were a mirroring, molten glare. Even if she was six inches shorter than him and looked like a European Barbie doll, I knew she could knock him out with breaking a nail if it came down to it. "She's seen worse, she countered. "She can handle it."

**"**You don't know that. You've made this same mistake before trying to keep it 'unbiased', but she'll piece it together in two seconds!"

**"**I'm not going to baby her!" Mia hissed.

**"**This isn't the way to-" Mason stopped himself, seeming to pick up on my arrival. They straightened and separated instantly. I stared at them, Dimitri my shadow. Meanwhile, my stomach was still doing acrobatic stunts. Call it a sixth sense or natural intuition, but I knew even without their shady bickering I'd stumbled onto something big.

I knew this one was different.

**"**What?" I asked after a lapse of ominous silence, casting accusing glances between them. "What aren't you telling me?"

Mia and Mason exchanged a look, the latter silently edging her forward. Mia still looked defensive, but I could see her front slowly crack. She closed her eyes, caving. "We weren't talking about you," she finally said. When she said nothing else, I walked forward to see the evidence for myself. They made way silently.

And that's when I froze.

I'd been shocked at murder scenes before, but this was very, _very _different. I was petrified. My muscles locked up instantly and my tongue felt heavy as lead as I stood there, unmoving, unable to speak. Unable to believe what I was seeing. I felt like I was looking at a ghost- a terribly, terribly disfigured ghost. My skin crawled. The victim was in her early 20's and athletic-looking, her brunette hair matted with blood and flopped on the pavement, painted rosy by the red sunrise. Hollow, blue eyes stared at nothing while her body was crumpled on the ground in an unnatural position. In the pool of blood was a chess piece.

"Oh my God," I whispered.

Dimitri, alert and observant, swooped to my side instantly, peering down from his tall height. "What? What is it?"

He didn't know what was wrong. Of course he didn't. He couldn't. "Don't let her come," I tried to order, my voice muffled and choked.

"What?"

I couldn't answer. I was too distracted, the cogs in my head churning. Slowly, the fog of fear was lifting as I blinked back the tears beading behind my eyelashes. With it came realization, and anger. This is what they were trying to hide. What Mia was trying to hide. _'We weren't talking about you.' _My tongue still felt like lead, but I fought it back, clenching my jaw. My quivering fingers fisted and my knuckles turned white as I whipped around lightning-fast at Mia. Dimitri flinched, but she didn't. She saw it coming, her blue eyes ice.

I didn't even have to look. I knew; if her eyes were cold, mine were searing. "Get her out of here!" I snapped. "Do you hear me? Do _not _let Lissa see this!"

"Rose-"

"_Now._" There was no arguing or debate. It was final. I didn't look at any of them as I abruptly turned back to the victim and dropped to one knee.

The victim was a dead-ringer for her. Both shared the same traits. Both were the same age and body type at the time of death with brown hair, blue eyes, and light skin. Both had also been killed the same way and marked with the same tale-tell. Even if she'd hadn't been referring to me, Mia was right. I figured it out in seconds. This was the handiwork of Avery's killer.

Avery Dragomir's case had been written off as a cold case with little to no evidence turning up during the investigation's time span. It was marked as a sole, freak accident in the sea of Boston murderers and stowed away in the mountains of files dominating the basement of the PD headquarters. It'd been considered insignificant, not a threat. But not now. Not anymore. With the clear victim type and characteristic tale-tell of the murderer, the white knight chess piece a mirror of Dashkov's mark of a tea cup, I knew.

"We're dealing with a serial killer," I whispered.

* * *

**As promised, we're finally moving on from Victor Dashkov to tackle Avery's murder, the Strigoi, and some whirlwind romance. Special emphasis on that romance part. H&D might have been a bit void of that category, but hey, I like getting character development in before they rip each others clothes off. For future reference, please note the current and updated "M" status of this story. Eh? Eh? Points for that?**

**Reviews/Favorites/Follows would be superb. You all absolutely make my day.**


	3. Little Detective

I half-expected that statement to be a catalyst to a small explosion in the alleyway over, or a cue for dramatic orchestra music to start up. Instead, it was interrupted by a scene out of a bad TV sitcom.

Just as I was about to order Lissa's whereabouts, a small commotion broke out on the opposite side of the wide alleyway, diverting my gaze and attention. _What now? _A plump PD member was guarding the other end and making wild hand gestures, apparently trying to ward off a civilian from the crime scene. All I could see of his opponent was a bundle of messy, dark hair, bobbing up and down, trying to get around him. It was like watching a bad game of tag. He feigned a move to the right, the PD member foolishly falling for it. Dark Hair ducked under the police tape and casually sauntered past, hands pocketed like he was taking a commute stroll through the park instead of a murder scene.

"Wait! Stop!" the PD member flushed in anger. "This is off limits, you can't just-"

"Don't worry, this is completely business," he sang back. From his Louis Vuitton shoes and excessive hair gel, I highly doubted that. His voice had a musical lilt to it, reminding me of warm caramel dripping off a spoon as he all but step danced out of the policeman's range. This was hardly the time to dissect his vocal patterns, though.

"What the hell," I swore as I straightened, going to intercept the runaway GQ model that had just walked into the alley way like it was the red carpet. Coming closer, keen, jovial remembrance lit up his features, brightening as he caught sight of me. I had no idea why. I didn't realize this teal tank top was such a plus.

Seeing him perk so much, I struggled to place him, with little success. That endeavor was cut short. I barely even noted his high cheek bones before, out of no where, the tall, dark, and handsome stranger hugged me. I was stunned. And felt totally violated. This had to breach some sexual harassment law, one far worse than Mason could have pulled. While I remained frozen in his tight embrace, I could feel the gazes of my entire department burning into my back, Dimitri, Mia, and Mason included. The scent of cigarettes and expensive liquor clung to his clothes like perfume.

It wasn't until he pulled back and flashed me an impish grin my memory clicked.** "**Little detective," Green Eyes greeted. "Nice to finally see a friendly face around here."

I blinked again, memories of a graveyard and a bar coming to light. "You're..."

"Amazing? Gorgeous?"

Coming out of my stunned haze, I found myself shooting out a retort almost instantly. "I was going to say out of line and begging for an arrest warrant."

His grin grew. "A heart breaker if I ever heard one. You live up to your reputation, Rose Hathaway."

"How do you know my name?"

"Everyone around here knows your name," he chirped. I cut him a confused look that quickly sobered into understanding. While I'd mostly stayed out of the limelight, I had been on the front pages alongside Victor for weeks. His statement had more backing than I liked to admit. Luckily, he switched topics just as easily as I liked to. "But I would hold off on that arrest warrant. I am, after all, a great asset to this case."

From the note in his voice, I think he expected me to gasp in surprise or award him a golden star. Instead, I scoffed. Like hell I was going to trust some stranger that moonlighted as a golden member of a bar. "Liability is more like it. You can tell me all about that at the station later, but in the meantime, I have a medical examiner to find." I looked back at my partners, taking some guilty pleasure in Dimitri's stiff posture, courtesy of the surprise hug. Better to separate the two male entities. I didn't want to file out the paperwork if anything physical went down. "Mia, did you contact Lissa?"

"We paged her. Never got a reply."

"Alright, I'm picking her up then. Could you do me a favor and retain this idiot? Mason and I will head back for her." I had to tell Lissa the right way. I didn't know how I could gently put that our newest case was a dead ringer of her murdered sister from half a decade ago, but anything was better than Mia's initial plan.

"Where is she?" Mason asked, already getting out his keys while Green Eyes made some remark about "handcuffs not being his thing", Mia responding by tightening the cuffs to their breaking point. "Back at home?"

I ignored our so-called asset, focusing on Mason and angling toward him. "Yeah, she should be-" As soon as I said that, I stopped. I'd been so distracted by everything before, GQ models, old murders, and male testosterone included, I'd forgotten Lissa's crucial change in her morning routine. No, she wouldn't be home, I realized. It was still morning. If she hadn't gotten our call yet...

"She's still out jogging," I breathed. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I walked briskly toward Mason, barely able to get those words alone out. Each syllable felt heavy. So did my stomach. It wasn't that my gut was doing acrobatic flips any more; a chuck of ice had settled in the pit of my stomach, melting slowly and seeping through my blood stream. That cold sparked me into action more than anything else could have. "I need every cop in that neighborhood to set up a perimeter. Dimiti, send out the bolo!" I ordered behind me, Mason and I already out of the alley, my partner knowing instantly I was in no mood to play.

"Rose-" Dimitri started.

"Little detective-"

Their protesting voices faded quickly with distance. I didn't care. I didn't have time to humor them. I had to find my best friend, ASAP.

"Rose, what's wrong?" Mason asked, not missing my sudden anxiety as he unlocked the car, fingers wrapping around the door handle.

For a second, I wanted to tell him about the ice thing, before changing my mind. Better to play it safe and stick to the facts. "She's out jogging," was my only answer. That was the only answer I needed to give, though. His eyes flashed in understanding and we jumped in, Mase barely flipping on his siren before gunning through the city streets. Even though we were almost double the speed limit, I shifted nervously in my seat the entire time, my skin itching. Damn it Lissa. For someone who continually spouted out random facts, you would think she'd be fully aware how dangerous running alone is for a woman– especially given the number of serial killers lurking in this town. Especially given they liked to target members of the police force, medical team included.

It wasn't those facts that were filling me with nausea, though. It was that stupid block of ice in my gut.

I've had more than one brush-ups with death. It's a default of the job. It's also one of the main reasons, besides questionable sanity and idolization of his serial killer brother, that Robert Dashkovhad called me "shadow-kissed" when we met last autumn- and for as much as I loathed and denied that title, there was some backing to it. I was very acquainted with Death. I knew Death like the back of my hand, and unfortunately, I knew his touch just as well. It wasn't just eerie, but cold. Ice cold. It was the shadow that breathed on the back of your neck and sparked goosebumps down your spine. It was the chill that had lingered on Victor Dashkov's fingertips when he caressed my throat and that had glossed the cool metal of his scalpel as it pressed against my veins. And it was that cold that was suffocating me now as we raced through the streets of Boston. Death shadowed me.

But for some reason, it also shadowed Lissa.

"Damn it," I swore. "We need to get there, now!"

"I'm doing everything I can." Just as he said that, he ran a red light, using police jurisdiction to bend the traffic laws. Over the scanner, I heard some PD members responding to Dimitri's bolo. They were on their way, all of them except one towing after us. Mason cut me a look, his knuckles tight as he gripped the steering wheel. "We're two minutes away, tops. What's gotten into you? I get the jogging thing, but this is extreme, even for you."

"Lissa's in danger."

"How do you know?"

"I just... know." Just as it wasn't wise to bring up my serial-killer nightmares with my criminal team, it probably wasn't wise to go into the "shadow-kissed" plot twist while trying to convince them I was perfectly sane. I think Mason wanted to push for more, but bit his tongue, and raced through another intersection instead. The whole driving-80-mph was enough to occupy anyone's attention, thankfully.

Almost living right up to his prediction, we got to Lissa's street two minutes and 17 seconds later. My chest cage squeezed in both elation and fear when I saw red and blue lights flash around the corner. Two options flashed through my mind's eye: either a PD member had found her, or we were about to stumble across another scene like they one we'd just left. The latter was too overwhelming to even fathom.

I was glad I didn't have to torture myself with that mental image for long.

Mason screeched to a halt around the corner, tire marks scorching the pavement and leaving black marks. Lissa looked up, surprised, the small blonde in her track outfit and conversing with a young police officer. By her confused expression, I knew she didn't know what was going on. Right then however, I couldn't care less. It took everything in me not to collapse in relief.

"Rose?" Her alarm rang through loud and clear as Mason and I rushed over to join the PD member. "Are you alright? Did something happen?"

I stopped long enough to catch my breath again, my hand resting on the gun at my hip. "I should be asking you that. Are you okay? Are you hurt?" As I verbally probed her, my eyes swept over Lissa, looking for any cues of danger or injury. The block of ice in my stomach might have melted, but the fact it ever made an appearance was enough to put me almost permanently on edge.

She frowned, her eyebrows knitting together as she saw me studying her so intensely. I would be just as confused by my behavior, not to mention the probably weird questions if she didn't get mugged or ambushed this morning, save for our mini SWAT team. "No, I'm fine. Everything's fine. Why? What's wrong?"

"...We got called in this morning. There's been another homicide."

"I left my phone at home." Her green gaze cut between us, some of her Harvard-level IQ beginning to shine through. We wouldn't make this much of a commotion over anything. Just like me, she realized this one was different. "...This isn't about the Elena case, is it? What is it?"

I exchanged a look with Mason, my heart still trying to get back into its normal tempo. Mason's blue eyes were steadfast as they met my gaze. Gently, they seemed to be coaxing me forward. He didn't always know what was going through my head- hell, some days I didn't- but he trusted me, and he trusted me to do the right thing. That's what I really loved about Mase. He had faith in me and my crazy mood swings no matter what. I looked back at my best friend, a hundred words seeming to gravitate between us. Only one sentence came out. "I think it's something you need to see for yourself."

* * *

Lissa chose to change back into her regular dress and pumps before going into work. Even dolled up and pretty as a super model, though, I could easily detect her fear rearing its ugly head as she stared at the photos of the victim tattooed to the projector. We were in the computer tech room adjacent to the homicide detective's offices, the phones a distant, background drone. While I usually preferred to stick to my desk and set up my map of Boston to track the killer, we had to take precarious measures and keep the rest of the homicide unit's wandering eyes at bay. This was the one scrap of privacy we could muster.

Mason, the young and suave male of the group, knew his way around computers better than the rest of us. He was the one stationed behind the screen and clicking through the forensic evidence photos of the crime scene. While Lissa remained stationed up front with her jade eyes glued to the projection, perfectly calm, I wasn't fooled by her facade as I stood on the sidelines with Dimitri. No one could be that calm, especially when personal involvement with the case was a factor. That I knew from experience.

"What are you thinking?" I finally asked, making sure to be more gentle than usual. While I hated when people tried to be cautious around me, I felt like it was the least I could do in this situation. Yeah. I could see the double-standard.

She paused, her eyes honed upfront where a close-up photo of the woman's neck had just come up. "This is different from Avery's," Lissa said in a small voice, sticking to cool logic for the sake of professionalism. "Parts of it are, anyway. This girl wasn't killed in her home and the bruising patterns are different."

"How so?"

Lissa didn't approach the image but drew across a section in the air with her pen, highlighting the purplish-blue mars on her throat. "These bruises weren't made to incapacitate her. From the arc of the grip and no signs of struggle, he began choking her after she was already hit in the head or after she was on the ground. Obviously for bruising to occur though, the blood still has to be circulating. He did this while she still had a pulse."

Dimitri looked curious at that. While it was weird to use choking after the victim was already vulnerable, I knew the change in MO was what was really throwing him. In Avery's case, she'd been choked then hit with the blood force trauma. Most double-offenders stuck to an almost identical pattern as their first kill. It was how we were able to nail them. "Are you certain?" he asked.

She nodded before pausing, and contradicting herself. "I'm... fairly sure. I'll still have to do the autopsy to be certain. She was killed about 12 hours ago, so there may be a chance more evidence of bruises will appear within the next 10 to 12 hours." Surprisingly, that was something I understood, no PHD required. Bruises weren't instant. If you nick your arm on the counter, you won't notice discoloration until the next day. Bruises typically take 16 to 24 hours to appear since the amount of blood pooling to the damaged tissue becomes greater and more obvious as time goes on. It's like developing a negative. It takes a while.

"10 hours is a pretty short time span for bruises to show up, isn't it?" I piped in.

"When this much force and pressure was applied?" She sighed. "It's not impossible. But the fact is, between this and the change in venue, there are differences from Avery's case."

"The similarities still outweigh the differences," Mason said.

Lissa didn't reply at first. "Yes," she finally answered, apparently just as puzzled as Dimitri's about the unexplainable switch in technique when the factors of victim type and chess piece were the same. "They do."

Choosing to ignore the gruesome slide show, we angled toward each other, my small unit, save for Mia, gathered in a semi-circle. "So let's assume we are working with the same killer," I said. "The small change in MO is weird, I admit, but the cases line up too perfectly to ignore. The more important question here is: What kind of a murderer goes 5 years between kills?" Half a decade was a long time for a killer to happily hibernate. Just that time lapse alone could explain why he changed.

"A methodical one? Someone that follows a schedule?" Mason suggested, shrugging. He twirled a pen between his fingers. "It's either that or something triggered him."

"If this is his pattern, then he's going to go underground after this," Dimitri pointed out. "We'll lose him, and then there will be another death 5 years from now."

"That's only if he's methodical. If something triggered him..." I trailed off, letting the unspoken meaning hang in the air like a damp cloth. As one, we mentally reflected, picturing the gory overkill in the alley, helped by the photos still plastered on the wall. It was true, the murders followed a time schedule. However, the previous kill hadn't been this severe. A methodical killer like Dashkov carries out precise, consistent work. This was sloppy compared to Avery's murder. Lissa was the one to finish my thought, her voice still small.

"If something triggered him, it's only a matter of time before he kills again."

The door to the tech room opened, the blinds clattering against glass. It was Mia. Boy, that gave me a lot of time to absorb the whole Methodical vs. Trigger-Happy theory. I knew better than to let my smart mouth run today, though. Mia was all but fuming, barely able to keep up her normally cool mask. I hadn't seen her so annoyed since she had to take care of her baby niece, the small blonde the farthest thing from the maternal type. "Rose, I need you out here."

"What is it?"

"It's not a what, it's a who. Your lovely company from this morning is insisting on talking to you, and only you." She sighed harshly and, if I wasn't mistaken, mumbled under her breath, "Too bad torture isn't a legal way to wrangle information out of people."

An image of dark hair, a carefree grin, and emerald eyes flashed through my memory. "Oh, right. Him."

"Who are you talking about?" Lissa asked, frowning. She'd been MIA not only from the crime scene, but from the surprise hug. My pride had kind of been happy for that. Just like Lissa didn't like showing weakness in her job, I didn't like being thrown off guard in front of my unit, especially by a cheery, cigarette-smoking magazine model.

"I don't know, some guy," I answered vaguely, hoping to dodge this line of questioning. "He showed up earlier and acted like he knew me."

"You don't know him?"

"Not that I know of."

"But he hugged you," Mason chimed in. Internally, I resisted the urge to slap my forehead. Scratch the thing about me loving my partner. He couldn't keep things bottled up if his life depended on it.

"He hugged you?" Lissa exclaimed, Dimitri as stoic as always with just a hint of interest peeking through.

Jesus Christ. This was going to put me into a coma quicker than my coffee addiction. I puffed a strand of hair out of my face, frayed, and reminded myself I really needed to start carrying a bottle of aspirin. "Can we knock it off with the campfire storytelling? No, I don't know who he is or why he was there- _or_ why he hugged me. He did say something about being an asset though, so I might as well hear whatever the lunatic has to say." Chances were, it was going to be some fateful retelling courtesy of cheap champagne and too many cigarettes, but if that was what it took to avoid the scrutiny of my homicide gang and get him out of my hair, so be it.

As I started to head out, I was surprised to see Lissa take a step forward as well out of my peripheral. "Wait, I'm coming with you."

I glanced back, perplexed. "Why? He's probably just some nut with a wild party story to share."

"Still, if he does have anything to do with this case..." Her words waned off, Lissa choosing not to elaborate any further on that "if". But then again, she didn't have to. I knew what she meant. If there was any chance she could find out something tied to her sister's killer, she had to follow through. A sigh pressed against my chest but I nodded as I walked out toward the interrogation wing. Lissa followed.

Our interrogation rooms tended to be small with two chairs, a table, and a one-way mirror along the side wall. I knew instantly which room he was in. It was the only one with a current occupancy. Green Eyes perked when he caught sight of me again, but stayed rooted in his seat. That was Mia's handiwork. He was so tightly fastened to the seat's armrest by handcuffs, I didn't know if I was walking into an interview, Guantanamo Bay, or some weird S&M scene. "Finally, little detective. And here I was afraid you'd forgotten about me."

"Between the hair gel and surprise hugs, you're hard to forget."

He looked amused. I had to admit, it was annoying. Maybe I was still a little vexed about his first stage appearance in the alleyway. Maybe I was just irritated that he seemed like the type that was hard to hold a grudge against, thanks to his looks and flippant personality. "Is that why I'm in handcuffs? To keep my hands to myself?"

"Standard policy."

He chuckled, seeing through my lie. True, this was far from our usual witness chats, but I'd thrown that line out in Mia's defense, not because of my not-so-eager response to him. "You're not the warm and welcoming type, are you?"

I ignored his unabashed greetings and sat opposite of him in a cold, metal chair. Lissa was by the door, watching silently. "So?" I prompted. "You said you were an asset. Spit it out already."

"Blunt, too, I see," he tacked on to my already-charming attributes. "You're not going to ask my name?"

"I figured you would have humbly introduced yourself by now."

He smiled. "I see you already have a great impression of me, little detective." I was about to retort he'd sealed that deal with his choice of first appearances when he cut me off and continued, "Adrian Ivashkov. Of course you don't have to introduce yourself."

"Of course," I murmured, though I still had little to no idea on how he knew me. "What exactly is your involvement, Adrian?"

"Easy. I know your victim." Lissa straightened and her ears perked at that. "Her name's Natalie Wood. 25, I believe."

"How do you know her?"

"Well now, normally I don't kiss and tell, but I suppose this is a special case. I picked her up a few nights ago. Pleasant girl. Awfully chatty. I was supposed to meet her again last night, but she didn't show. This morning I went to check on her and started to walk to her apartment when I stumbled across that huge crowd outside of the alley. When I saw you there as well, I had to intervene."

"What do I have to do with it?"

He shrugged, commenting easily, "Who am I to ignore a damsel in distress? And yes, you did in fact look fairly distressed back there, with or without my embrace. If I was going to help, I figured I might as well do so in the presence of such an alluring woman."

"And here I thought teal wasn't my color."

Adrian grinned again, his green eyes smoldering me. "Believe me, you could pull off anything."

I looped back to the topic at hand, knowing I shouldn't have set up that bait. He seemed like the type to be easily distracted enough without my help. "Is that all you came to tell me?"

"Yup," he chirped. "I thought I could help, so I did. Didn't think it would call for a trip in a squad car or the medieval chains, but I suppose I'll slid on the 'police brutality' charge for today, since you graced me with your presence."

God did he like laying it on thick. "Are you sure that's it?" I pushed.

He batted his eyelashes innocently. "Do I look like the type to lie, little detective?"

I rolled my eyes. Truthfully, I didn't know _what_ type he was, but after mulling it over for a few moments, I reluctantly decided to set the little devil free. He hardly seemed like a danger to society. Probably just a danger to himself. If nothing else, I could check on his alibi for last night and verify the identity of the victim. There was no other reason to hold him, if he had no more information to divulge.

As soon as his hands were unrestrained, he instinctively reached toward his back pocket, most likely after his cigarettes. I scolded the action and insisted he smoke outside of the building. Boy did he sulk at that. After a lengthy discussion of cigarette privileges and lung cancer, Adrian Ivashkov finally walked off, leaving behind a few suggestive comments to ponder on and the smell of expensive cologne to keep us company.

Lissa joined my side and I placed a hand on my hip as we watched him go. "What do you think of _him_?" I muttered.

She regarded him carefully, measuring her response. "Not sure. He seems innocent enough, but he went to a lot to request you specifically. Are you sure you don't know him?"

"Not sure either on that. Want me to check?"

She cut me a curious look. Just as I'd noticed her fear before rearing its head, I think she detected my detective-prone curiosity. It might be a requirement for the job, but it definitely didn't do me many favors in my personal life, including now. What it was good for was getting information. "Hey," I called, making Adrian stop and look back, a few surrounding policeman loitering around him. "Why did you insist on talking to me, anyway?"

Adrian's normally amused look sobered slightly. It might have been my imagination or the distance, but he looked almost serious as he regarded me, pondering. "You really don't remember?"

I frowned. It was far from the breezy answer I expected. "Remember what?"

There was a pause before his loftiness returned and he angled away again, pocketing his hands. He became Adrian again. "It's nothing. I just can't stay away from beautiful women, and what can I say, you looked like the type to strike older, little detective."

That earned him a dry look as I mildly wondered if I had the trajectory and arm to knock him upside the head if I threw my boot at him. He'd probably be more offended that his hair got messed up. "I'm not into older guys," I remarked placidly.

"Sure you aren't."

As he finally left, the elevator door closing behind him, I couldn't help but try to place him again, just as I had in the alley. True, I had seen him before, once at a graveyard and once at a bar, but that hardly called for a grand welcoming party with confetti, balloons, and the works. The way he'd ominously put it made me feel like we were supposed to be old drinking buddies or childhood friends from a bad soap opera, though. Was I missing something? I scrapped my mind, trying to remember. Nothing came up. More than likely, he was just trying to charm his way into my sights. Either that or I was reading too much into it. It certainly wouldn't be the first time.**  
**

* * *

Night settled over the city soundlessly. When I went downstairs to Lissa's lab later that evening, I was surprised to see her hard at work despite the hour. The platinum blonde was adorned in scrubs and sporting a face shield, the bright halo of light over the victim keeping the flooding darkness at bay. It was the only source of light in the room, but it was enough to make her out. It was also enough for me to see her extra company.

He was the one to glance up when I arrived, nodding. I regarded him warily, questioning his sudden reappearance in the horror-movie scenery. "Fire boy. It's been awhile."

"I just got off work," he explained casually, arms crossed as he leaned against a autopsy bench. "Thought I'd come and enjoy the other side of the medical field."

"Oh yeah," I said, glancing around at the corpses and surgical tools. "It's like a honeymoon vacation down here." He smirked, unfazed by the creepy setting and my sarcasm. To my credit, I didn't pile on any more dry humor about their weird choices in lounging. With his own lab coat and medical license, he blended in pretty well. Christian Ozera, or as I liked to call him, Fire Boy, was a snarky companion from our high school days, his dark hair, blue eyes, and tall stature a perfect balance to Lissa's pale and small figure. Only recently had he made a reappearance, and as a doctor no less. He tended to work on live patients; had that "other side of the field" joke not been so corny, I would have laughed.

Showing great restraint on my sarcasm again, I didn't make another comment- and yeah, I had about 4 more stowed away- glancing back at Lissa instead. She hadn't said a word or glanced up since I'd arrived, making no noise save for the clinking of metal tools. I instantly registered the body she was working on as Natalie. Elena was resting on another bench, the only indicator a sparse tuft of hair peeking out from beneath the medical sheet. I crossed my arms, mirroring Christian. "Find anything?" I asked quietly.

Lissa straightened and glimpsed back at me. It was only there for a second, but I caught the small, queasy flash in her eyes, unsettled by this victim. "Nothing much," she answered just as softly. "I'll call if you if anything comes up."

"You make it sound like you're ready to pull an all-ngihter. Come on, it's getting pretty late. Want me to take you home? We can even have a slumber party with Bass."

"No," she said, turning back to Natalie. "I want to keep working. But don't worry," she added quickly to try to reassure me, "I'll make it home alright soon. I know you've missed your own shower and bed. You don't have to wait up."

Honestly, I didn't give two damns about that. I could have slept on the floor with Bass's shell as my pillow and Febreeze as my cleansing routine if it meant making sure Lissa was alright. With her back toward me, I cut a look toward Christian. He was as aloof and snide as always, but there was a softer edge to him in wake of the case, keeping a steady and close eye on Lissa. While they had had a bumpy relationship in the past, I knew they could pry as much information as need be out of each other. He probably knew all about Avery and our newest case. As the cherry on top to prove that theory, he bottled up his usual biting remark as well and gave me a sincere nod, ensuring everything was fine. "Don't sweat it, Rose. I'll make sure she walks the straight and narrow."

"From you, that's not that reassuring."

He smiled, but it lacked its usual punch. "Guess you'll have to place your vote of confidence in me tonight."

Yeah. Unfortunately, I had to. While I would have chatted up the autopsy room for hours on end just to give her some form of comfort, I knew it wouldn't help tonight. I'd already recognized Lissa's attitude. She wanted to be alone. And truthfully, Christian barely counted as a male, let alone an intrusive figure. "I'll leave you two to your date, then," I said, keeping things light-hearted. Christian swept me a mock, gallant bow as I left. Lissa just kept working.

I don't know what bothered me more when I went to bed that night: Lissa, Adrian, or our newest case at hand. All of it lumped together into a bad pill I had to reluctantly swallow as I closed my eyes. Outside of my apartment, the city streets roared dully with traffic and moonlight spilled in from my balcony, painting my bedroom an eerie, soft white. As I drifted toward unconsciousness, I expected nothing less than my usual, bone-chilling nightmares. It had become a part of me and my REM cycle, as natural as the stars plastered in the sky. What I _didn't_ expect was reality and dreams to blend together.

And I certainly didn't expect a visit from Victor Dashkov in that package.

* * *

**Oh, Adrian. My favorite VA character is finally making his debut. He always likes to be fashionably late to the storyline- but don't worry, he's going to become a major asset (and probable illegal consultant) as this case goes on. **

**As for the actual case, I have to say, I don't know how these girls put up with serial killers most days, and I think it takes awhile for them to process it. We'll get more into Lissa's feelings and her take on the case in a couple chapters once she gets a better grip on herself. We'll dive into Rose's nightmares and the mystery of the letter at her doorstep in the next segment.**

**Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for every Review/Favorite/Follow. **


	4. Flaring Proximity

_I was being smothered._

_That was the only thing that registered- or, frankly, that I cared about- as I was startled out of my sleep, my body shocked in alertness. I couldn't breath. Something was covering my mouth and pressing down on my chest, a dark figure looming over my bedside. A thousand thoughts rushed through my mind as my instincts kicked in, ordering my limbs to thrash against the black form while I gripped at the hand. _

_I couldn't, though. I was pinned, the hand over my mouth silencing my shouts as my chest heaved. A cold sweat glossed my skin. My fingernails dug into the strained ligaments of the hand's back, but he didn't flinch. He never did. "Shh, shh," a voice coaxed. While it was meant to be endearing and soft, the words sparked goosebumps instead. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, my heart beating in overtime. "Just relax."_

_Moonlight spilled over my sheets, making them an eerie, ghostly white while the blade of the scalpel glimmered like death's scythe. He curled the surgical instrument in his free hand, back and forth. I shrank back in fear, my eyes flickering from it to the shadow. Darkness struck his features at glaring angles, his jade eyes cutting through the black miasma, locking with my gaze. Nausea swelled in me. The right side of his face was deformed. Burned. Like he'd finally taken on his monster form, inside and out- all because of me. "Now," Victor said, his sweetly sick breath on my skin as the poised blade crept closer, blood pricking wherever it touched. "Where were we?"_

_As the blade sunk into my flesh, eliciting a muffled cry from me, it suddenly stopped. Everything stopped. Then, like a tape, the scene rewound, the scalpel, Victor, and sea of white vanishing as I fell into darkness and closed my eyes._

_It wasn't long until I opened them again._

I broke out of the nightmare like ice water, my eyes snapping open. Gasping, I shot upright and recoiled my knees, Victor and images of a red-stained scalpel vanishing. The walls bounced with my loud gasps, ringing in my ears in the deathly silence. It was the only thing I could hear.

I was alone again, in my apartment.

Still, shadows and I didn't have a kindling relationship. Shoving away those ghostly white sheets, I grabbed my gun and was out of bed in a flash, threatening every corner of my bedroom with the bullet-filled glock. Adrenaline does a lot to banish bleariness. I was on full alert as my eyes swept over the dancing, laughing shadows.

It was true, nightmares were a part of my daily routine. This was different, though. It felt real. Way too real to be just a dream. There was only one other time I'd had that kind of powerful dream, and that was when Victor had hunted me, informing me all about why I'd been his target. Still, that hadn't been physical. That hadn't sparked the cold, empty pit in my gut like it did tonight.

Something was wrong. Something had changed.

Pushing ahead, I tiptoed carefully along the creaking floorboards, trying to make as minimal noise as possible. It was hard, considering my heartbeat was twice its normal rate and Dashkov's ghost flickered in and out of my peripheral, a wicked illusion courtesy of my pulsating fear. I couldn't control it. The dream was bad enough, but walking around on eggshells in the middle of the night like this served as a heavy dose of deja vu from my being-hunted days in the fall. The only thing that was missing was a Russian God napping on my sofa. That actually would have been preferable at this point. It was good to have another set of eyes. And another set of arms to fall into after the homicide mess was done for the day. _So not the time, Rose, _I mentally scolded while my eyes flickered around. Dimitri didn't even have to be in the room and I was concocting weird scenarios with him. Thank God I had a good poker face most days on the job.

I surveyed every nook and cranny of my apartment- twice to make up for my FBI agent's absence. 15 minutes into it, I wound up in my living room, empty-handed from my search, save for the gun I started with. I exhaled and lowered it, raking a hand through my hair. Even a quarter of an hour later, my heart was still beating like crazy. Not to mention that "natural intuition" in my gut was acting up again. While my eyes and the evidence at hand insisted the flat was bare, some part of me severely disagreed. I felt like I was missing something. What that was, I had no idea. "Maybe I'm looking too much into this," I grumbled to myself. Or I was extremely tired and running on close to no sleep, thanks to my nightmares and so-called "gut feeling". Yeah. That could be playing some major role.

I sighed and checked the hallway and under my door just to soothe my paranoia. As expected, there was nothing. No letters, or chess pieces. No boogie men or serial killers ready to knock on my door at 3:32 AM. "Maybe Liss can get me one of those REM sleep cycle machines," I mumbled under my breath, straightening and wandering back over to the west side. Fresh air was what I needed. Fresh air and a sample of normality. I cracked open the window and leaned out, the cool, April breeze ruffling through my shirt and hair. I took a long, much-needed breath. This side of the building was partially blocked by the neighboring building's alleyway, the other half displaying one of the many curved, city roads.

I barely had time to admire the Boston landscape, though. About 20 seconds into my mini-meditation session, the low growl of a cat registered with me. You had to be joking. The one time I wanted to meditate, and a 6-ounce feline had to interrupt. I opened my eyes and scanned the darkness. I couldn't make out the fur ball, but he made his presence pretty well known. Alley cats weren't uncommon, but they usually didn't make much sound.

That hissing-and-meowing sound wouldn't stop tonight. "Hey, I'm not having such a hot night up here either," I whispered to it, hoping my input would shut it up. It didn't. If anything, it intensified. I groaned and was about to slam the window down on its whining when something else registered me. I still couldn't see worth a damn, but wind doesn't just carry noise. It also carries smell.

And just then, I sensed something totally out of place. It was faint, but it was a burning smell, like a fueled candle suddenly out of wax. My frown deepened before some parts of the scene pieced together. That's what the cat was complaining about. The aroma. And that smell was coming around the corner, at the front of my building.

That was all the push I needed. It's one thing to have a hunch; it's another for an animal to confirm something was up. I grabbed my gun again and postponed my zen session to thunder down the indoor, padded stairs of my building. I was on the fourth floor and knew I should be more gentle going downstairs at such a late hour at the risk of waking my neighbors. Urgency tends to diminish normal courtesy, though. If anything, I could blame the cat later.

I thanked my rare fortune that the front desk was empty and pushed out the front door. That's when I caught sight of the burning source, laying on the pavement of the complex's sidewalk. I stopped. My foots barely carried me two, dragging steps forward, enough to keep me out of the range of the swinging door as it closed behind me. I stared at it for a heartbeat longer before glancing around and poising my gun, threatening any onlookers to make a noise. But I heard nothing. Nothing I could justify firing at, anyway.

Warily, I walked down the last two steps. The red stick continued to burn, filling the air with ash and an acrid, bitter perfume. It was a flare. A mirror of the one I'd used in my escape from Dashkov, subsequently burning half his face.

Or, to put it simply, it was another message for me.

I went on high alert and poised my gun again, slowly backing up. I would retrieve the flare later, but not now. Not yet. Not when the person who had dropped this off could still be watching me. Never prying my gaze away from my surroundings, I covertly slipped back inside and tried to ignore the pungent aroma that had scorched my throat and made my palms, marked with Dashkov's signature, ache.

* * *

Needless to say, I skipped to Plan B. The instant I saw the flare, I'd recognized the cue for trouble and that I probably couldn't take on anyone that decided to jump out of the bushes, so long as I was still in my dead-tired, half-comatose state. So, I called him. He was the only one I knew would happily respond at this hour.

He didn't disappoint.

Less than 30 minutes later, despite either being asleep, in the middle of an FBI rendezvous, or near the end of a bad western novel, I opened my door to find Dimitri on the other side. I hadn't told him why I needed him- but then again, I didn't have to. He had made it abundantly clear he would always be there for me. By his pensive, guarded demeanor and the way his dark eyes worriedly swept over me, caring only that I was safe and sound, he stuck by his claims.

"Are you alright?" he demanded softly. I nodded slightly, not trusting my voice. "Are you hurt?" I shook my head, but cracked the door open wider and wrapped my arms around myself, betraying my "everything's dandy" visage. The 4AM phone call had already taken the liberty of killing that aura. He took the invite without hesitation.

5 minutes later, I wound up curled on the sofa, Dimitri beside me. While he hovered close enough for me to feel his body warmth and detect his discrete, pine-like scent, his attention was diverted. That was my handiwork. On the coffee table in front of us, evidence spilled over every inch of the mahogany surface. He might have joked about calling me General- a default of nicknaming him Comrade- but I liked to live up to my reputations and set up camp. Papers about the Strigoi, Victory Dashkov, and Avery Dragomir's killer were aligned, the various pieces of this puzzle jumbled on the playing field. On the corner was the anonymous letter from this morning I'd haplessly set aside. In Dimitri's hands was the flare. I'd cautiously retrieved it, snuffed out the flame, and bagged it before he got here. I didn't want him to find it on my doorstep and order a portable SWAT team. Plus, that cat wouldn't shut up about it.

"You found this on your building's doorstep?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah. No one was around, though."

"But you think this has to do with Victor Dashkov."

It wasn't so much a question as a statement. I stayed quiet at first, not disagreeing. It was hard to dispute. People didn't casually leave behind lit flares on the pavement at 4 o'clock in the morning. "I don't know. I know he's locked up, believe me, I do, but it seems like a pretty obvious message for me, right? Maybe it's a hint, or a warning. Maybe he has another apprentice. I wouldn't put it past him. All I know is someone's trying to scare me."

"And maybe that's all this is," he said sagely, trying to soothe me and my rampant, wild theories. "A scare tactic."

"Maybe," I mumbled. "You can't blame me for jumping to the Dashkov conclusion."

"No. I don't blame you for that at all, Roza."

Dimitri continued to cautiously examine the data and papers. We exchanged different ideas and stuck to business, but he did a lot of comforting on his end throughout it. Just talking to another human being and ensuring I wasn't crazy was a dose of positivity in my book. As he rummaged through some files, he noticed the letter sitting precariously on the outskirts. He picked it up. Wwith everything else, I'd completely forgotten about it. "What's this?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure," I said. "Someone left it at my door earlier. I figured it was just some nut off the street."

Dimitri frowned, reading the same printed question I had this morning. Despite my flippant response, we both knew it was more than that. That was the main rule he'd nailed into me at FBI training: never dismiss evidence or take the smallest detail for granted. The fact I'd gotten one anonymous clue right before the flare added an extra punch. "And when did you get it?"

I had to rack my brain for that answer, rewinding the last 20 hours. "This morning. Or, well, whatever counts as less than 24 hours ago. It wasn't here when I got home last night."

"And then you got this flare," he said quietly to himself. He was trying to piece it all together. His eyebrows suddenly knitted together after that, uncovering another fragment. "Weren't you at Lissa's up until a couple nights ago?"

"Yeah. Small plumbing issues around here, I think the manager's fixed it by now though." I watched as his frown deepened. "Why? Is that important?"

"No, it's nothing, really," he said. His tone contradicted him, and gave him away before he could follow-up with, "It's just the way this is lining up. The timing seems convenient."

I frowned too, able to put two and two together. "You think someone knows what I've been up to? Like... someone's watching me?"

"No," he said quickly. "These could be two totally different things." Even as he said that though, I wasn't convinced. He wasn't either. Dimitri rolled it around in his head a bit long before flipping the letter over. For being the phlegmatic poster boy of calm, cool, and collected, I noticed instantly as his expression transformed into surprise, taken aback.

Always in sync with him, my body tensed and I came closer, peeking at the letter "What? What's..." My words died off, seeing what he had. I stared, starstruck. It didn't take long for that shock to melt into self-deprecation. _You idiot_, I swore in my mind, berating myself, _how did you miss this?_

I knew how, though. Mia's call from this morning had interrupted me before I could investigate further. It had distracted me from turning the page. And it had distracted me from seeing a map of Boston printed across the back canvas, thin, precise lines dividing the paper into perfect squares. "It... it looks like..."

"A chessboard," Dimitri finished quietly. I looked up at him. Our gazes locked, and the fragments fell together, beautiful but sanguine. The letter wasn't tied to Victor or the Strigoi. This was the handiwork of Avery's killer. All of it was. The chess pieces. The letter. The taunting "care to play?" inquiry. I didn't know about the flare, or what part if played a part of yet, but I had to block it out of the equation for now. There was one, simple truth laid out in all of this: this had become a game.

"This is about our new case and these killings aren't a pattern. It might have been before, but now... now he's playing a game." Another revelation hit me. "He's going to kill again. Oh God, I have to tell Lissa-"

As I started to unwind myself and get up, Dimitri stopped me, his fingers lightly gripping my wrist. "Rose, you can't go alert her now. It's too late, you can tell her in the morning or-"

"No, don't you get it? I have to relay this to her _now_. It can't wait."

"Why? Why is this so urgent?"

"What are you-" I stopped and looked back at him. Genuine confusion was plastered on his face, not understanding why my nerves were so frayed and how Lissa took precedence over my partners in this case. "You don't know?" I whispered.

No. He didn't know about Avery, I realized. He couldn't have. 5 years ago, I left the FBI academy for 3 reasons: a note that threatened to expose our relationship and destroy his career, the sudden appearance of a blue-eyed beauty I later found out was Tasha and only a Belikov family friend, and my best friend's murder back in Massachusetts. All of it had forced me to pry away from him, and he knew none of it. This morning, I'd been so distracted by Lissa and her safety I forget to put him in the loop. _Better late than never, Rose. _I hesitated again before slowly sitting back down. For not knowing much, he had a good point that I shouldn't run to Lissa's side now, especially when the chance of her and Christian getting cozy in the lab was a stronger one than I liked to think about. I cleared my throat before explaining, "5 years ago, near when I left the academy, Lissa's sister was murdered."

Understanding crossed his features. "...And that's the murder from half a decade ago we were discussing in the tech room." I nodded. There was a pause. His fingers still caressed my wrist. "Rose, if this happened back when you were still in training, why didn't you tell me earlier?"

Honestly, if I was him, I would have wondered the same. He didn't know the full story, though. Along with the phone call, the memory of the letter flashed through my mind's eye. Not this letter from Avery's killer, but the one that threatened to expose our relationship to the FBI community. And to a 22-year old girl trying not to get caught with her instructor, it had packed a pivotal punch. If Dimitri had known about Avery back then, he would have tagged along. Our relationship would be all but exposed in bold lettering and neon arrows. "I don't know," I lied quietly. "Back then, I was caught up in other things. When you came back, I was a distracted by my own boogie man."

"So we're dealing with another personal killer."

"Yeah, you could say that."

We sat like in silence for a few minutes. A blanket of serene apprehension settled over us. While we took comfort in each other no matter what, that peace was sobered by the murderous spectrum of our career choice. He wasn't the only one trying to take new information in. The mindset of our killer and the sudden flare, a gift with no ribbon or post card, haunted me. And I had a lot of things haunting me as phantoms already. Dimitri had slipped his hand away from mine, but the warmth lingered as I curled up again. He went back to brooding over the evidence table. I studied him covertly, mesmerized as always by his silk hair brushing his collar bone and his appraising, dark eyes. Adrian Ivashkov wasn't the only guy that could pass for a GQ model. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing really," he answered. He glimpsed at me. My exhaustion must have been evident as he said, "Just that it's not going to do us much good investigating at this hour. You should get some sleep, Roza."

"What about you?"

"I'll stay," he assured me."It's not safe for you to be alone right now until we figure this out. Get some sleep. You deserve it."

"I'm not that tired. We can still go over the case and look for-"

"No. Sleep first."

There was an unspoken 'don't protest' message imbedded in his words. Damn. He knew me too well. I sighed, crossing my arms over sofa's arm rest and laying my head down. It was true, I still wanted to stick to my general nickname and charge on the front lines to figure this mess out, but my exhaustion was winning out with my fear calmed, threatening to K.O. me. Even without this middle-of-the-night chatting session, I had been skating on close to zero sleep for the past 6 months. It was raw in my bones and weighed me down like a boulder. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing much."

"That means you're going to be scoping around like a Doberman, right?" He didn't reply. His silence answered for him. "You should sleep, too. Especially considering I roused you out of bed to begin with."

"I don't mind."

"You're avoiding the point."

He didn't answer. I wanted to protest more on that, but my eyelids were growing heavy, that invisible weight taking its toll. Internally, I sighed. "Don't say I didn't try," I murmured. With Dimitri's presence my comfort, I began to give into my needs and drift off. Well, I tried to. It didn't last long. Before I could even fall into sleep and a nightmare, another terrible, blood-rusted vision of Victor flashed through my mind's eye, the blinding glint of a scalpel illuminating the dark. I tensed and my eyes snapped open, sucking in a short gulp of air. My heart rate had jumped again, but I tried to hide the spike of terror.

That was no use. Not when Dimitri was on full alert. He stiffened, demanding softly but firmly, "What's wrong?"

It took a few moments for me to recompose myself. Normally I would have brushed it off. And man I wish I could. But I couldn't. Not when Dimitri was like this. "I don't know," I said quietly, telling a white lie. "Just fear, I guess."

"You don't have to be afraid." It was my turn to not answer. I didn't want to. I always wanted to look like an invincible warrior around Dimitri, and these nightly terrors were really tearing that image down. He seemed to pick up on that with his crazy telepathic sensory, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "It's alright to be afraid, but you don't have to be. I'm right here."

"You're never afraid," I pointed out wearily.

"I am."

"Liar," I mumbled, my eyelids overpowering me again. I could feel my heart rate slow into a steady tempo, lulling me toward exhaustion. There was a gap of silence for a few heartbeats.

"No," he finally said, quietly, as if I was supposed to hear. If it wasn't for the faint breeze wafting through the window, carrying the faint perfume of sulfur, Dimitri's pine-like scent, and his soft, velvety voice, I wouldn't have caught it at all. "I'm afraid of you." For a second, the chill plaguing me ebbed away. It might have been exhaustion or a mesh of dreams deluding me, but I swore I felt something soft press against my forehead, kissing me goodnight. I didn't have long to ponder on it. Almost instantly, sleep overcame me and I fell into sweet, simple nothingness.

* * *

I like to think I had a good dream that night. I don't remember much, the connection breaking and distorting my memory, but it momentarily banished the cold and enveloped me in an intoxicating high. I don't know how long I slept before my body's alarm clock roused me awake, but eventually I felt myself falling off that elation, unraveling like a blanket to threads.

Bands of light glimmered through the window blinds. That was the first thing I saw when I woke up, gazing through half-closed eyelids. Slowly, the banal elements of my living room came into focus.

Well. It was better than falling asleep at my desk.

Suppressing a yawn, I stiffly sat up, my back complaining at the motion. Outside, birds mutely chirped. I could also hear the pitter-patter of water and my shower running down the hallway. Guess the building manager had managed to cure that dilemma after all. I didn't think much of it; like Lissa, people here and there tended to crash at my place, and I was too hung up on my rare, blissful hours of sleep to dive back into reality just yet.

Stretching, I got up, noting that the coffee table was spotlessly clear and someone had thrown a quilt over me, before wandering toward the hall. Again, I wrote it off. It's hard to pry into those small details with deep Sherlock reasoning when your body's sore and in need of a 6-hour massage. "Lissa?" I called, voice muffled with sleep while I squinted. "That you in there?"

It was the first and only person I could think of in this situation, but I got no response regardless. The water kept running. Huh. Guess she hadn't heard me. I ran a hand through my hair and wandered to the door over and into my bedroom, checking my cell that was still at my bedside. Surprisingly, my gun wasn't beside it. The glowing screen distracted me from that small lapse in normalcy. It probably wasn't healthy according to any therapist to sleep with your pistol under your pillow like a teddy bear anyway. Out of my texts, there were a few new messages, one being from Janine Hathaway. I simpered slightly at that. Among the other relationships I'd recently patched up, my mother was one of the more staggering ones. We were still on some bumpy rocks, but it was a vast improvement from the snow-peaked, jagged mountains we were on before. The text was simple and straight-forward, making some dry crack about a report from David Letterman. I suppose everyone has to get their humor from somewhere. The other messages were from Mason, and weren't so light-hearted. It revolved around our cases, one a recount of lab work, confirming no prints were on Elena, and the other confirming that Adrian Ivashkov had an alibi and was dead-on about our victim's identity. Natalie's parents had claimed her and were planning a funeral for Saturday.

As sad and semi-frustrating as those texts were, they were enough of a stimuli for reality to tumble in– and remember some fragments of the incident last night. The nightmare. The flare. The real meaning of the letter, and the discovering into our killer's psychology. "Shit," I exclaimed, changing plans and direction. I barely stopped to shove on a blazer before racing out the door. My urgency from last night rerturned and doubled. I had to tell Lissa. If this was guy was going to kill again, she was the first person I had to alert. I had to-

_Umph._

Before I could take 10 steps, I ran into someone. I'd been so distracted I hadn't noticed the water had turned off, or that their was someone else in the hallway, their arms steadying me. The first thing I really noticed after that was that Lissa had somehow adopted the figure of an NFL quarterback overnight. I never realized 6 inches of leopard heels could strengthen calves _and _upper body.

Then I blinked, and my vision focused, long enough to realize the chest I'd slammed into was all male and muscle. That was pretty obvious when you factor out the common visual of a T-shirt and duster. He was all bare from the waist up. Rooted in place, the last piece of my memory from last night involving Dimitri making a late appearance, I robotically looked up at him. To be fair, he looked perplexed, and I didn't blame him after screaming with a sailor mouth and slamming into him at full speed. I also noticed other things. Like his wet, almost-black hair clinging to his neck. And his pondering, dark eyes. And the fact he was only in pants and still holding my forearms in an attempt to keep me upright.

"Are you alright? I heard you yell."

"...Just dandy, comrade." I wish I had a more clever retort on hand, but admittedly, my mind wasn't fully there. Okay: _none_ of it was there. Half was having flashbacks of our night at the academy, and the other half was reminiscing my earlier wishes of a hot sex shower scene.

So. Someone had been listening to those prayers after all. I just didn't know whether to count that as a blessing or another score for the universe's sick sense of humor.

* * *

**On account of fevers, college visits, and other plagues, I had to postpone this chapter. On account of numerous reviews and messages, however, I postponed long enough to throw in some requested Dimitri and Rose spice. Forgive the cliff hanger. Shirtless Dimitri will make up for it.**

**Every Review/Favorite/Follow is appreciated. **


	5. Confessions and Cashew Chicken

For better or worse, however, I didn't have long to ponder that. My moment of moral conflict and physical appraisal was interrupted by the buzzing phone in my hand. Granted, I didn't even notice at first. With his touch sending electric jolts through my bones and numbing my senses, mixed with the hypnosis of those eyes, I could have been hit by a wrecking ball and barely taken note of it. Dimitri noticed, though. His eyes flickered down, breaking our gazes. That alone partially shattered the connection. Then, slowly, it dawned on me what he had to be looking at. Just as I registered the vibration, he inquired, "Are you going to answer that?"

He was arching an eyebrow curiously. I looked at the phone, then at him, then back at my cell again, visibly torn. The number on the phone said it was Lissa. That was kind of important. But the 6'7" Russian model in my hallway said shower action, mixed with my not-too-phenomenal impulse control and sweet nostalgia. That was also pretty important.

However, I realized quickly that I was the only one mentally drooling. That was understandable, given that my clothes were fully present at the moment in contrast to his bare torso. I knew from personal experience if my shirt was out of the equation, we'd hardly be taking about mundane topics like phone calls. In fact, we wouldn't even be talking; our lips would be preoccupied with more urgent tasks. But that's the thing. My clothes were on and I wasn't testing his boundaries in this situation. The tables had been turned, and he was inadvertently teaching me another prime lesson in self control 5 years after bailing from his teacher title, the responsibility of work, Lissa, and not-sleeping-with-my-coworker slamming into me and keeping me from jumping him. _God damn it_, I mentally swore.

Universe's sick humor 1, Rose Hathaway 0.

"Uh, right. Of course," I said, hoping my brazen response sounded as confident as my reputation called for. In truth, my legs felt like jell-o. His hands on my upper arms were the only thing keeping me upright, and I was surprised I didn't collapse- maybe hopelessly into his arms- as I picked up my phone, barely detouring from my moment with Dimitri. "Yeah Liss?"

"Oh, good you're up," Lissa breathed. It took the remaining ounce of my will to tie down my libido and not reply with some double innuendo at that one, directed at my current company. Luckily, she jumped in before I could make any such comment. "Do you think you could come into the lab?"

"Now? It's pretty early."

"I know," she said. Her voice was laced with mild guilt. "But it's urgent. You wanted me to call you if I found anything, right?"

I had said that. Damn it. I huffed a strand of hair out of my face. It was true, a good portion of my brain was still wired tight and dragging my gaze back to Dimitri, thinking it was early enough to crawl back into bed for a few minutes and see if he could tag along, but the other half was reminding me how critical this case was. This was Avery's killer we were talking about. I couldn't make Lissa feel guilty or make her wait; add that to the fact I had the killer's new mindset in my back pocket, and this was hardly the time to get cozy up with Dimitri. I never thought I'd admit to that last part. "Right. Don't sweat it, Liss. I'll be there pronto. "

I clicked off, and glanced back at Dimitri. He still looked gorgeous by any measure, but his bottomless eyes had taken a sharp edge, his posture stiffer. His protective instincts had kicked in, courtesy of the work call. "What is it?"

"Lissa found something in the lab. I have to go in."

"Should I go with you?"

"No, I should go alone. Lissa had a vibe last night that said more did not equal merrier."

I went to go grab my pistol and badge, alongside my purse. I hated leaving him, but sneaking in a 6'7" FBI agent was a task my feeble, half-asleep mind wasn't ready to tackle. I'd have to settle for taking mental snapshots. And trust me, I looked up at least 8 times in the span of 45 seconds to accomplish just that. Dimitri stood at the end of the hallway, dark eyes following my hands as I stuffed in my daily necessities. He wouldn't protest against me, but I was surprised when he said, "Very well. Be careful, Roza."

Bemusement ceased me for a moment. It was enough to still my fingers, and I blinked. "Why say that? This isn't my boogie man we're dealing with."

"Perhaps not, but you are the one receiving his letters, and-" Dimitri cut himself off. I could almost see the mention of the flare burning at the tip of his tongue, but he set his lips into a thin line, biting it back. "And I don't want to get that kind of call at 4AM again."

_I could make another call at 4AM for you, if you prefer. _"So I did I wake you up?"

"No. But it did scare me."

I almost made another flippant comment at that when I caught something that made me do a double-take. Whereas I had been all but drooling two minutes ago, his eyes were now kindling a small fire. Like when Adrian complimented my plain teal camisole, I never realized I could get that kind of look from a blazer and slacks. Unlike Adrian though, his gaze sent chills and warmth down my spine. That was the thing about Dimitri and I. Most of it was silent, but the attraction was there, an invisible tidal wave ready to knock me over at any time. That hidden intensity was almost too much. I had to force a smile and grab my keys before the other half of my brain made me run to him like that scene in _The Notebook_, rain or no rain. "Don't worry, Comrade. I don't want to make that call again either." It was one thing we could agree on.

Red light spilled over the linoleum floors of the entrance as I arrived at headquarters. Visiting your work at the crack of dawn is a lot like visiting your high school after hours: totally weird and out of place. The only police presence consisted of two sleepy-eyed PD members that ushered me through without batting an eyelash. Oh, it was very intimidating. I'm sure it would strike fear into the heart of any Strigoi member that sauntered in for donuts.

Sadly, downstairs wasn't any more uplifting. I thought Lissa's work station was creepy during the day; with zero company and the one present, florescent bulb flickering, I half-expected Jason in a hockey mask to be the next character greeting me. Instead, I found my best friend, seemingly unaffected by atmosphere. Lissa was almost in the exact position as I'd left her. She hovered over Natalie as a guardian angel, dressed in white garb and a face mask, working elegantly in the room of the dead. While it was a shocking parallel to last night, signs of weariness and time's passing were drawn between the lines; you just had to look close enough. Tremors from a sleepless night reverberated from her fingers to the scalpel. Her hair was limper than usual, lacking its trademark shine, and not enough concealer in the world could mask the purple under her eyes. The only indicator she'd gone home was her change of clothes, sporting a champagne skirt and blouse- though, knowing her, she could have very well hidden the extra outfit in her desk drawer in case of a last-minute cocktail party or in case James Bond decided to surprise her with an airlift to London.

Still, if she was tired, she didn't show it. She buzzed around her work station like a golden hummingbird, flitting around, her hands constantly moving. I cracked the door open with my foot, pausing before remarking, "For the health captain of meditation, zero sleeps seems counterproductive and a bit hypocritical."

My input was enough to make her stop, looking up. Her eyes softened a fraction before she shook her head, metal tools clinking against metal as she set them aside. "I slept," she countered. "Enough, anyway. I'm usually the one giving you that sort of lecture."

"How times change."

"That was barely two days ago," she reminded me, a twinge of amusement in her voice. Lissa regarded me levelly, measuring me just as I had her. Apparently, she was taken aback, either because I wasn't a walking corpse or because I wasn't dependent on a coffee mug to revive said corpse. Probably both. "You seem refreshed, though. Enjoying the perks of having your own shower back?"

"Yeah," I said, reflecting on my mental snapshots of our FBI agent, and factoring in the bonus that no turtles were lurking in the depths of the hallway to ruin my fantasies. "You could say that." I strolled in fully, the door creaking shut behind me and wheezing, reminding me of a sound effect off _Ghost Hunters_. Yeah. That really helped the atmosphere. Glancing around, I noted an abnormality outside of my Dimitri-centered daydreams, though thankfully it wasn't paranormal. "Is Mason not around? I got texts from him earlier."

"Oh. I'd forgotten he'd messaged you too." Only Lissa would use "message" instead of "text" while she was in her science swing. "He sent those late last night. That's when forensic tech concluded that there are no finger prints on Elena. Natalie's parents identified her 15 minutes later."

"And Christian?"

"Back at work. He got called into emergency surgery around 12, right after he dropped me off at home."

"Oh, you medical types are such sweet-talkers."

A shadow of a smile was on her lips, and I think she would have been happy to dive into romantic gossip– seeing as she was the one between us with a devoted yearly subscription to a teen magazine and a movie collection with 90% of the lead roles being played by Amanda Seyfried- but she wasn't as impenetrable to her work as she often seemed to be. We could chat about old boyfriends and guilty shower pleasures until the sun set again, but this wasn't the place or time. Simmering down, Lissa returned her focus to our latest victim. My eyes flickered to Natalie as well. Unlike Elena, she was uncovered, the bright light washing out her alabaster skin to an unnatural white. The dried blood and her dark hair were shocking contrasts to it. It sobered both of our attitudes and was a keen reminder as to why we were here. "What did you find?" I asked quietly.

There was a pause before she warned, "It's not pretty."

"I never expected it to be." Her job hardly screamed glamorous, despite her get-up and fashion sense.

Careful not to damage any evidence, she walked around to my side and cradled the fractured cranium gently in her gloved fingers, like a broken egg. The gash was severe. A cylinder-like dent impaled the shell to the point it was caved in, shards of white bone flaking with each touch, dried blood matting her hair and wound. If Mason had been around, he would have fainted or lost his lunch, the red-haired detective unable to stomach the gore-related aspect of the job despite his bravado. Even I felt a little queasy looking at it. Lissa drew her fingers around the left-sided indent, highlighting the general shape. "Do you notice anything in specific about the wound used to disarm Natalie?"

"Um. It still looks pretty rough. And it looks like... I don't know, roundish? Cylindrical?"

"Exactly," Lissa said, approving. She snapped off her gloves and went over to her computer. The blank, ebony screen slowly flickered back to life as Lissa jogged the mouse. There, forensic photography from 5 years ago were plastered on the screen. If I hadn't recognized the face shape, I might have mistaken Avery for Natalie. They were too strikingly similar. And while Lissa easily handled Natalie, she wasted no time in zooming in on Avery's wound and avoiding looking at her sister's postmortem face, a desperate attempt to stick to cool logic before personal involvement clouded her mind. She cleared her throat. "This is the head injury used to incapacitate Avery. I checked the records and measurements and compared it to Natalie. It's almost an exact match."

I picked up on what she said almost instantly. "Same weapon. Our killer is sticking to some key points in his M.O. if he opts to bring something instead of relying on his own strength and environment." It was a stark cry from other cases, and an important thing to take note of. Lissa had been right to flag me down and call me in. Not only was it forensically a good countermeasure to track among other records and hold up in court, but it was another glimpse into our murderer's head. It was another key piece in nailing this guy. I turned to Lissa fully. "What kind of weapon could have made that indent?"

"I couldn't say. It would be guesswork."

"Okay, then provide me with some guesses. Use your gut."

Her eyebrows knitted together. "I don't listen to my intestines," she protested, acting like it was scandalous to even consider. For someone as analytical as her, it probably was. Meanwhile, I was willing to bring down some of Boston's Most Wanted on a pin drop if my instincts were pointing at something out of the blue.

"Liss, you have to use your best judgment here."

"I'm trying, but honestly, without comparisons of width and unit density, it's impossible to determine. That skull fracture could have been caused by anything from a golf club, to a steering wheel, a flashlight- even a hardy watermelon could do the trick if pressurized with enough applied force."

"A hardy watermelon?" I repeated. She nodded, and I paused, reevaluating her. "Remind me, how much sleep did you get?"

"Enough," she sighed wryly. "I'm in full possession of my faculties. These are all plausible objects, on one spectrum or another."

"Oh yes, of course. I'll just get the press on the phone and tell the public to look out for anyone carrying around a broken off steering wheel, a 3-inch wide flashlight, or dense vegetation."

I could see her purse her lips, beginning to correct, "Watermelon's technically a fruit-"

"Lissa."

"I know, I know, that's not your point here." She sighed and sat in the desk chair adjacent to the computer screen. Whereas she normally sat with an air of royalty and poise, a default of her family's padded wallets and posh nature, she slouched today, taking off her face mask fully and using her elbow to prop her head up. "And this whole thing isn't really helping, is it?"

"It is. I mean, maybe not the watermelon idea, but the rest is solid work. It's another glimpse into this guy. That's a start, right?"

"A start, maybe. But not much more than that."

She looked upset at herself. My rallying cry clearly hadn't been as effective as I would have liked. But truthfully, there was no need for the one-man pity party. It was good work, given the overall lack of evidence at hand. Or, well, what she had at hand. The memory of the letter burned in the back of my mind. It wasn't very analytical, but it was something, and something important. I had to let her know just who we were up against.

"Lissa-" I started.

However, as I opened my mouth to divulge my insight, the ominous creaking of the lab tech doors stopped me. I angled back, positive the girl from the _Exorcist _was braced at the doorstep and ready to strike. Instead, I found a seasoned police commander- otherwise known as _our _seasoned police commander. "Alberta," I acknowledged in surprise, flipping names between the two females. Alberta rarely made personal calls; she especially didn't go out of her way to visit Lissa's subterranean lab. This had to be important. And sure enough, she confirmed it as soon as I asked, "What are you doing here?"

She told us. Alberta wasn't the type to tread in wish-wash greetings or sugar-coat her intentions, getting right to the point. I was braced for that, but even so, her reason for coming stunned me. Dimitri had notified her earlier while I was still sleeping to inform her not only of the latest developments in our case, but our personal stakes. What didn't strike me was Dimitri's paddling, FBI intel; it was his concern. You didn't get a personal vouch from an FBI agent on a daily basis. I guess I _had _really shaken him with that call. When you're a homicide detective who barely gets two Christmas cards from inmates and political judges, you can be touched by the smallest things.

"So, I decided something," Alberta continued after recapping her source information. "I'm no stranger to the strain of this job, and with all the cases going on, I want to make sure you two are focused on this one alone. Dr. Dragomir, Rose, I need you two to be fully devoted to this case. I'm going to let you off the hook for Health Week captains, but for the time being, that also means I have to turn over the Strigoi case to another unit."

Shock rippled between Lissa and I. The lose of my health captain title was hardly something to remorse. In fact, I could have cheered and chest-bumped at the uplifting news like a true Boston-blooded citizen watching baseball. However, that was the only good news fragment. I glanced over my shoulder at the second covered body. Sure, our guy mattered, and the Strigoi mattered. But right then all I could see was Elena. The girl with no evidence, no one to claim her, and hardly a scrap of identity. The girl that had been killed by her own people and dumped in contempt. Even if she'd been someone in their inner circle, right then, she was an innocent, and she'd been slaughtered in cold blood. Her killer would walk free at this rate. That was enough to make my blood boil and clench my lax fingers, growing a backbone as I turned back to my superior, opposing, "Now? Not even a day after we found this body? Alberta, we can't just-"

"Rose," she cut me off coolly. Her gray eyes were stormy and steadfast. They all but cut through me, reading me like an open book. "I know how you feel. Believe me, I do, but you have to realize where your priorities lie right now. The Strigoi case has been on-and-off for months. No one has claimed her and there's no evidence to be found. You know as well as I do that means the case is cold again."

"But-"

"_But _the White Knight killer is different. You have a chance to catch him, and you can't give that up."

"The White Knight killer?" Both Alberta and I postponed out argument to glance over, Lissa speaking up for the first time. The inquiry was a startled one.

Alberta paused. "Yes. It's not a very proficient name, but it's what the press has dubbed him."

Lissa had no response to that. She had folded herself inwards again, adopting a surreal aura, the cogs in her had spinning. Alberta looked to me, the heat gone from her voice and eyes calm again, apparently not in the mood to fight as she reassured, "Don't worry. I'll give the Strigoi case to a good team. Jesse and Eddie can handle any curve ball thrown at them."

I still wasn't happy, but the thing about Alberta was she was often as stubborn as me. You couldn't change her mind once she set it. "Even Boston's most wanted mafia gang?" I asked, not bothering to hide the skepticism in my voice. She didn't bother to touch on it.

"Of course," she replied. "My people are the best in the business."

Alberta, like the ex-Marine she was, turned on the heel on her boot after that and left, dubbing her presence no longer needed. Lissa didn't say anything as she left, and I watched her go, eyes trailing behind, before turning them downcast with the swinging door. I sighed under my breath. From Alberta's heated insistence, I guessed Dimitri had told her about the letter and chess board. I suppose that just left my unit to fill in, in regards to that Scooby-Doo clue. _Better start now, Rose. _I breathed in through my nose and closed my eyes.

"Lissa?"

"Yeah?"

"There's something else I have to tell you."

The nearby clock ticked louder than normal, resonating in the stale air while my voice floated throughout the room. Like the coming sun, it seemed to fill up every corner and keep the shadows at bay, though the words I threaded manifested their own darkness. I told Lissa about the letter, and the chess board, but left Dimitri and the flare out of the equation. I didn't want to burden her with more than necessary, and she was having enough trouble absorbing that.

She sat still as a stone, an angel statue poised in her seat. "He's playing a game," she remarked. I nodded. Her eyes were still glossed over, pondering and dissecting each of my earlier words as she would inferring from one of her corpses as she glanced up. "When did his M.O. change?"

"I don't know," I answered quietly.

"But he put a chess piece at Avery's murder. There's still a chance he could go underground and wait 5 years before-"

"No," I intervened. "That might have just been his tell-tale, just like how Dashkov used a teacup. If he planned on making this a game, he would've given us this map from the start."

"But he just now gave it to you," she said slowly, fitting it all together.

"Something's changed."

"So he's going to kill again."

"I don't like the possibility, but that's what it's pointing to."

Her lips parted, and with a blink of an eye, she was lost in thought again. A weird sensation crept over me. A lot of the time, especially as kids, people would say we had some psychic link. They joked it was how we could retain our friendship despite our conflicting personalities, pinning it on something quirky but cute. Now, though, I couldn't decode her if my life depended on it. Finally, after a long duration of quietness, Lissa whispered, "Do you know what's crazy?"

I was the human emblem of craziness and dealing with craziness, but I didn't touch on that, asking simply, "What?"

"I'm... relieved," she breathed. "Isn't that terrible? He's going to kill someone else and I'm relieved." An empty smile on the corner of her lips. Her willowy fingers, draped in her lap, trembled; her nails bunched at the hem of her dress, trying to stop them. Even if she said she was relieved, her body language screamed otherwise. "Don't get me wrong. I'm still afraid, and sad, and angry even. But I'm relieved." She looked up at me through an opaque, gold-white veil. That sad, hollow smile was still there. Hiding her real emotions. Begging for me to understand. "Isn't that crazy?" she repeated.

I didn't respond at first. I wanted to understand. In a lot of ways, I did. There's no way to paraphrase fear. There's no way to verbally capture the voices in your head that spill over with each emotion, whispering sweet nothings and terrifying visions until it all adds up to a unspeakable bad catch in your throat. Her jumble of feelings was understandable. From Lissa, though, it was completely out of character. I felt like someone had sucker punched me in the gut. This was my best friend. She was the angel of the pair, and her strict "no combat" rules were about as helpful in criminal hunting as her painfully acute attention to her manicure. She never talked like this. She didn't do this job to jump on a corpse, itching on the sidelines for a new one to appear. But that wasn't what she meant, I realized. I sat gingerly across from her, knowing sometimes the presence of another human being was enough to soothe the anxiety. "You think that if there's another body, there's more evidence. More of a chance we'll catch this guy."

She nodded. Her jade eyes were fogged over, beginning to dip their toes into some empty, desolate place warded from any outsider, including me. "It's so crazy. But it's strange, too. One of the most terrifying things about this unsub isn't his crimes. It's the fact that he's a phantom. I have no idea who he is. Once in awhile I think I'll see him, along the street, or carrying mail. And maybe I have. But I'll never know, will I?"

"Lissa, we'll find this guy. You have to have faith in that."

"It's been 5 years, Rose. He killed 2 women, and we still can't pin him, and that's enough of an ego boost for him to take these risks like killing in an open alley and giving one of the lead detectives a personalized note. That's the thing about killers. They feel empowered by the game." Her eyes grew dim. "He reminds me a lot like Victor in that sense." I started to open my mouth when she cut me off, continuing, "I know. That's a stupid thing to say, isn't it? They're not the same. I shouldn't be comparing the two. Victor Dashkov's a serial killer. He attacks couples and women, and he attacked you, not once but twice. I can't imagine how terrifying that must be, even though I was right beside you when it happened. I've never been victimized. I've never been attacked by this man, but... but he stole my sister from me. And sometimes when I think I see him, I wonder: what would I do if it really was him? Could I kill him? Would it even matter?" Her eyes were glossing over, tears pricking at the corners and getting caught like constellations in her lashes. I don't think she was aware of them. "Do I even have the right to harbor this kind of hatred for a man I've never known?"

To say I was taken aback would be understatement. I don't know why, honestly. I should have been expecting nothing less. This wasn't just another case. This was her sister we were talking about. I'd wonder all of those things if I was in her shoes; whether or not I'd have the courage to admit them is something else entirely. I faced her and laid a hand over her trembling ones, assured my best friend, "You don't have to kill him," I whispered. "Catching him is enough. It's okay to be angry, and sad, and hateful. He took your sister away from you. In some ways, that's worse than if he had targeted you dead on. Right?"

For some reason, I think that was all she needed to hear. Lissa started to come undone at the seams. She didn't break, necessarily, but I saw something splinter and more tears spilled over because of it as she nodded numbly. I inched closer and kept her close, letting her stain my shoulder and hide her eyes. She was like me, in that sense; she didn't want to show weakness.

I don't know long we spent like that. A few more words and promises were exchanged during the span of time, the clock ticking by steadily. At one point, between small chokes and sweet nothings, Lissa told me, "Natalie's parents are holding her funeral on Saturday."

"Yeah?"

"I want to go. Pay my respects."

"Of course," I replied instantly. "I'll make the whole team come along. I'm sure I have a dress buried somewhere." It was a half-ticketed item from Macy's that screamed Mahjong, but it was better than my Sydney-styled wardrobe.

Lissa seemed dazed that I'd jumped on the gun. She lifted her head up long enough to study me. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Go with everything so easily."

I shrugged, feigning flippancy. "Because that's what I do. Because we're the dream team."

She smiled faintly. "You know something? I know people call me the angel in that dream team, sometimes even a guardian angel, but at times like this I think they have my name switched with yours."

Mentally, I reflected, thinking about when I came in and saw her poised over Natalie and Elena, watching over them in white, keeping them sheltered when no one else even bothered to care. I shook my head. "Naw. You still have that title in the bag." She smiled again, wider, taking my jokes in good spirits. If only she knew how truthful of a joke it was.

* * *

"You didn't tell Lissa?"

A drone of phones played in the background like a bad orchestra as I sat on the edge of her desk, sighing under my breath and drumming my fingers against a Styrofoam cup. Right then, I was thankful that tea and coffee were unmistakable at first glance. Even if Alberta had let Lissa and I off the hook for Health Week captains, she'd probably sear off my wrist like Dark Vader if she caught me with the banned caffeine. "I couldn't," I admitted to my partner as the bands of waning, afternoon light slipped through the blinds and painted her papers umber, several hours having passed since I talked to Lissa in her lab. "Not with everything that's on her plate."

Her blue eyes didn't miss a beat, Mia watching me carefully. "You told her about the letter, but not that flare?"

"It's... complicated," I answered quietly.

She didn't appear convinced, casting me a look out of her peripheral before opting to let it go, pointing out the obvious danger in what I was admitting. "You do realize what this means if Victor's behind this, don't you?"

"I do."

"I'm serious, Rose. It's a month before his trial, and you're not only the main witness, but his main target. He has a broad audience. He could have trained another apprentice or gotten someone to do this from the inside. You could be in serious danger."

"I know. But... I also know I'm not in danger of getting killed. He might just have an apprentice, or another accomplice, but they won't touch me."

"How can you be so certain about that?"

A part of me wanted to tell her everything, from my nightmares, to the shadow-kissed thing, to the all-hell-breaking-loose indicator, now vacationing in the pit of my gut. However, I still wanted to paint a pretty picture. I couldn't let on to all of that. If I got a weird look just from one small remark, she'd ship me off to a mental asylum after that run down. But the thing was, I had enough of an explanation without needing to dive into that pool, thankfully. While my dreams hardly portrayed Victor as the lead character in _Candy Land, _I knew they were just manifestations of my own, wild thoughts. If he could do that in person, oh, I'm sure he would. But he couldn't. And this wouldn't be his kind of go-around. "Because I know Victor Dashkov better than anyone," I told her simply. It made me nauseous to think about, but there was no point in dodging that truth. "Victor wouldn't let someone else kill me. He'd do it by his own hands, and his hands alone. This was just a fear tactic. He likes to play with my Psyche and see how much he can amp up my fear before he gets to me." He was damn good at it, too.

Mia regarded me for another minute, accepting my reasoning but still looking on the fence, before musing, "This is really something I thought you'd share with Lissa."

"What? You're still on that?"

"I just find it interesting. Why would you tell me but not your best friend about the flare? About something that could connect you to Dashkov again? Hell, why not tell Mason?"

"Come on, Mia, you know why," I said. I ran a hand through my hair, tempted to down the rest of the coffee. It was probably the only thing keeping me from dozing off. "You're... you're the only one I can talk to about this stuff. About Dashkov."

She said nothing to that, suddenly growing quiet and pressing her lips together. We both knew why; even if Lissa had been by my side, she hadn't seen me in the prime aftermath of my attack. Only Mia had.

"___What are you doing, Hathaway?" Mia asked desperately, her voice scared enough to rival my fear as she bent down to examine the damage. I was shaking, in physical shock, unable to process anything except the pain in my hands and neck._

___Pain. So much pain. It flooded my hands, two scalpels pinning me to the ground, tendons nailed to the floor. That same agony had slowly been dragged against my throat, the adrenaline pumping through me vainly rushing to numb it._

___Then, like a switch, it stopped. There was a gunshot and Victor vanished from my line of view. Now Mia's face was the only one I saw, eclipsing the faint, basement light. I was whimpering, making incoherent mumbles as she cupped my cheek, forcing me to look at her. "Focus, Rose, hang in there."_

_"__It hurts," I mumbled desperately, my voice grating to my ears as I was on the verge of pleading. Pleading for my life, pleading for the pain to stop. "It hurts!"_

_"__Shh, shh, I'm not going to move you."_

_"__It hurts!"_

I closed my eyes and squeezed the palms of my hands, soothing the searing ache that flowered whenever Dashkov's memory reared its ugly head. I tried not to show it out of natural reflex; but if anyone could understand the trauma Victor had carved into my soul the day he hewed my body, it was Mia.

Mia had been my partner first when I joined the Boston PD, and she was the one who had initially saved me from him. When Victor Dashkov first began his killing spree, my headstrong intuition had driven me to check out a suspected house alone, only to be knocked out by the sociopath and pinned to the ground with a scalpel at my throat. My partner was the one to respond. Shortly after the incident, Alberta informed the unit of a detective scheduled to arrive, and I volunteered to be partners with him, with Mia's promotion and the Dashkov attack shadowing over me. Needless to say, that mysterious void was soon filled by Mason Ashford, and Mia had taken a not-so-hidden distaste to him ever since.

While all of this swam in our conscious, neither of us said anything about it. It wasn't something you wanted to talk about outright. It wasn't something you _could _talk about. Finally, she craned her neck back, looking up at me. "You really don't think this flare was Dashkov's doing, do you?"

"You know him too," was my only answer. "What do you think?"

Again, she didn't respond. That alone answered for her. Silence settled again, and the drone of reality along with its annoying telephone rings flooded back. Drinking my coffee and letting Mia return to her desk work, I was about to go check my email (okay, hunt for Dimitri and some cold pizza in the fridge I could swipe) when I noticed a chunky vanilla envelope next to me, the contents beginning to fan out. It was a far cry from her precise, thin organizing system downstairs. "What's this?" I inquired.

Mia barely glanced at it. "News clippings. I keep a record of them from old cases."

Ah. I remembered Mason had talked about it not long ago. He had put on a fake mask of worry and whispered to me in high confidentiality that Mia had either developed OCD or a nostalgia disorder by coveting this kind of record of our cases. Naturally, I'd rolled my eyes and punched his arm, saying he was hardly the psychoanalyst and scolding him for rummaging through her finals. "The legendary press records, huh?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly, her natural intuition acting up at the worst times. "Did Mason tell you about it?" she asked dryly.

I hesitated. There was definitely some sourness behind her words. Time clearly didn't heal all wounds. "Nope," I denied, opting to tell a white lie to spare my partner's life. "Just heard rumors around the office."

Mia looked highly doubtful at Mason's innocence, but received a text just then and busied herself with it while my curiosity peaked, taking a look through the file. She hardly made a move to stop me. Sure enough, just as Mason's fabled retelling, it was a collection of news clippings from our previous cases. It hadn't been updated in close to a year, though; the Strigois were out of the picture and the last recorded killer had been caught in March of last year. I leafed through it, intrigued. It was like taking a stroll back through time. It reminded me of the Boston map I always set up to track our killers. We all had our strange quirks and vices.

There were a lot of faces I recognized. Of course, our White Knight killer wasn't so conveniently labeled, remaining a shadow against the wall. There was, however, one face and one name that stood out against the rest. _The Surgeon. _My fingers stilled. This entry was tucked in the back, but its larger size made it easy to spot; age had started to yellow the news clipping and wrinkles indicated it had been glanced at often and held in high regard, on a personal vendetta. I pulled it out and Mia visibly reacted before I even had the chance to read it, snapping her phone shut.

"Rose," she warned, jumping in, "you don't have to look at that." I didn't respond. It was too late. My eyes were honed in on my 22-year old self. Across from his mugshots, there was another photo. In it, my hands were blood red with gashing wounds and my hair was disheveled, tears marring my cheeks as shock took hold. 23-year old Mia's gaze was devoted to me, just as the current Mia behind her desk was. "Rose," she started again, before stopping. There was a lapse of silence. I could feel her eyes on me before it flickered down to the news clipping. Her voice was small and raw when she spoke again. I could swear she swore under breath before telling me, "...I should have been there, you know."

"What?"

"At that house. I should have been there."

I had no words for that at first. The incident wasn't something you talked about. You couldn't. Yet here she was, pouring salt on a wound carved half a century ago. If only it were bridge under the water at this point. I shook my head gently. "You didn't know," I said quietly. "I shouldn't have gone in alone."

"You went alone because I made it hard to ask. It's on me."

I stopped and looked up. Mia's mien was an echo of Lissa's earlier self-deprecation, eyes averted. Unlike Lissa, though, I didn't understand her reasoning in the least. "Don't you dare say that," I remarked. "This wasn't your fault. You saved my life that day."

"Then why aren't we partners anymore?" she countered.

I hated talking about this. It always came back to bite me in the ass. I tossed down the photo and file, as if seared by its touch, disgusted by it. Disgusted at the papers glorifying Victor, and even more drastically, disgusted by my own, candid weakness glimmering back at me in black-and-white. "Because, Mia. Because you saw me like that."

True confusion highlighted her face. "So what? It doesn't change anything."

"Yes it does." If her voice had been small, mine felt choked, as if my esophagus had knotted and my lungs were gasping for air. That unspeakable catch in my throat always made the ugliest appearances. "How could you possibly think I have your back?" I demanded. "How could you trust me to go into a dangerous situation as your partner and expect me to have your back after seeing me like this? After seeing me this... this broken?"

Mia was not the type to apologize. She didn't bow to superiors, and she didn't happily partake in a girl's night out to bond with her coworkers. So you could color me surprised when she turned to me fully and took my hands in hers, not flinching when her fingers grazed my scars, and looking at me dead-on. "Now you listen to me," she said. Her voice was no longer small; it was low, and pitched, and every word struck a chord. "He didn't break you. No one can break Rose Hathaway unless you let them."

"Mia-"

"No. Listen. It's a choice. I may not have been there for you fully back then, but I am now, so I'm going to tell you this much. You can choose to let him break you, or you can choose to fight back. And I know you well enough to know that Victor Dashkov will never break you." I'd always thought Mia looked like a cross between a baby doll and some Norwegian childhood star. She had a young face and gold curls to die for. But right then, she could have passed for a blue-eyed warrior from _Game of Thrones_. She had never looked so deadly serious. "It's the same for Lissa. She won't break unless she lets herself break."

"But Lissa- Lissa wasn't made to stand up against this kind of thing, she's just-"

"A medical examiner? Someone better to stick on the sidelines of the action?" I didn't reply. She had summed it up pretty well. Mia let that heavy silence be a reflection before saying, "We all have our personal demons, Rose."

I shook my head, my dark ponytail swinging behind me. I looked her in the eye, saying simply and honestly, "And I just want to protect her from them."

Her eyes softened a fraction, levering the severity ingraining her mood. She was almost back to her normal, wry and workaholic self. Almost. "That's the general consensus, and that's what we'll do. You want to protect her? Then we do our jobs. We nail this sick bastard and make sure he never sees the light of day again." She squeezed my hands then turned back to her desk. Warmth flooded my scars, but it wasn't from my coffee cup, or aching fear, or coal-hot apprehension. It was just warmth, plain and simple. The warmth of another human being. I looked at the open folder. Faces plastered the vanilla backdrop, painting a collage of murderers, sociopaths, and serial killers alike. In each wicked and baleful face, I also saw their victims, though, sweet and innocent. I saw Elena and Natalie and Avery, and all of Dashkov's victims, and each living soul that had known them before their day of judgment. Yes, I thought to myself. We did all have our personal demons.

* * *

Despite Mia's cheery pep talk, I was still bothered by all of Thursday's rapid developments as I walked down the stairwell, prepped to leave with a cold coffee in my hands and dry revelations spinning in my head. Out of everything, naturally, what bothered me most was Lissa. She was always on my list of priorities, and this whole mess had amplified it ten-fold. It didn't help that she had declined my light offers at coaxing her into staying with me, the head medical examiner even urging me home instead of taking another 4-day vacation in her townhouse. Whether it was out of pride or not wanting to bunk in the same bed as me in an address well-known to our killer, I couldn't say. It certainly didn't set right with me, though. God I sounded like such an overprotective mother some days.

The entryway buzzed with breezy activity as I passed through. In spite of that, the same two sleepy-eyed PD officers that had waved me in this morning were still stuck at entrance duty, looking on the brink of a comatose state. They, however, were the only ones feeling the late hour. I could make out Stan, a smug thorn in my side and fellow detective, rolling his eyes and opening his mouth, probably to unleash some political, cockamamie opinion to his coworker. I also spotted Eddie, one of the detectives who would be taking over the Strigoi case. He had auburn hair, tan skin, and was a well-built individual. From the rumors, he hardly used that muscle. He was more of a wallflower that stuck to the quiet side of things. Living up to his reputation, he felt my gaze on him and nodded politely by way of communication, only to turn and head back up to his work station. Ha. He was kind of like a mini Dimitri, I thought, both in age, stature, and height. Adorable. A few other PD friends were in the lobby attendance and, spotting me, cheered me into joining them for a few drinks. I didn't miss Stan roll his eyes in the background at that. A part of me wanted to jump on the bandwagon and cheer with them just for the hell of it, and to annoy him. Too bad I had more pressing matters to attend to. Sadly, I had to decline, but I shot them a wicked grin and assured it was a one-time refusal.

Heading out of headquarters, I slid into my car and closed the door, pausing before sinking back into my seat. A part of me wished I could just kind of melt into the gray fabric. Outside, everything seemed normal and humdrum, headlights flashing by in a steady stream while the city glowed with lights, cheekily promising a playful night ahead. Inside my personal universe, though, things were crumbling. Our new killer had no identity, but knew mine and Lissa's pretty well. The Strigoi case was no longer under our belt. My love life was still platonic, and painfully so at that. Plus, I had refused an outing for beer, for Christ's sake.

"My life is a mess," I declared.

Empty air answered me. It wasn't exactly the sympathy I was looking for. Sighing, I straightened and put the keys in the engine, ready to start up the car, when a passing VW bug's lights flashed by, illuminating something metal near the ash tray. I paused before retrieving it. The metal was cool in the palm of my hands. The _chotki _glimmered heavenly in the dim light. A sigh pressed against my abdomen. "You're probably glad I refused the bar invite," I muttered.

The _chotki _was an old Romanian cross, gifted to me by Lissa. It was an old symbol that was to be held by the guardian of the Dragomirs. I always kept it close to me. It reminded me of Lissa, and it reminded me of Avery, and everyone who I wanted to protect. Often times, the cross would make guilt flood over me, for one simple reason: I hadn't protected Avery, and she had been killed because of it. That may be a ludicrous notion, considering I was in another state at the time of her murder, but the personal responsibility still echoed in my blood. Running my fingers over its smooth exterior, I could almost feel the cross pulsate, reminding me of when I'd last worn it. It was when I'd last visited Avery's grave sight, in October. _I'm sorry, Avery_, I had choked, my voice ringing in my ears as a hollow echo. _I'll protect her, though, I promise. I'll protect her._

"I'll protect her," I murmured again, repeating my words. I curled the cross in my hands and pressed it to my lips. It wasn't a question, but a statement. I had to. I was the Dragomir's guardian.

And sitting there, reveling in that one simple need, a chord suddenly struck me from last night, when I noted that Christian barely counted as a male in Lissa's little bubble, let alone an intrusive figure. I might not be able to stick close to Lissa after work, but I realized I knew someone who could. Setting aside the small cross, I picked up my phone, and dialed him. He answered on the second ring. "Rose?" Christian's voice was puzzled. From the noise on his end, I guessed the night fever had reached the ER clinic as well. Either that or they were throwing a pizza party, complete with beer for the surgeons, prune juice for the elderly, and milk for the youngest crowd. I knew from experience it wasn't half that joyous though.

Despite my serious mood, I lightened my voice, for the sake of easiness for both parties. Life crumbling or no, I wouldn't let him on that. "Yup, you got it on your first guess, Fire Boy. Why so surprised?"

"I don't exactly get personal calls or love telegrams from you on a daily basis," he remarked dryly. "So? What do you need?"

I clucked my tongue in mock disapproval. "Man you medic types really are sweet-talkers. I'm all but ready to swoon." I could imagine the dry smile lacing his lips, but didn't give him a chance to come with a cocky and clever retort, continuing, "Unfortunately, I'm not the one that will be needing your lovely company, tonight, Romeo. Do you think you could swing by and check in on Lissa? Maybe even stay to make sure she's okay?"

"Now?"

"No, in about 3 months when we get ready for the beach- _yes_, now."

He sighed. "I'm prepping for surgery. Is it urgent?"

"Maybe. Don't deny your Juliet's beckoning."

"I'm not denying my Juliet's beckoning, I'm denying yours."

"So she is your Juliet."

"Rose," he said exasperated. "You can't seriously expect me to drop everything at the sound of your voice. Did something happen today? Lissa's okay overall, isn't she?" While his voice had held its typical, snarky lilt throughout our conversation, it lightened at the end of his questions, portraying serious concern. I had a feeling he really would abandon his work station to check in with Lissa, if I had said anything to indicate she wasn't all sunshine and rainbows.

"Well... no, I mean, she's fine, and it's not _that _serious, but..." I sighed. "Oh Christ. Do I have to give you the run down, too?"

"No, no, I'm fully aware of how long your stories take from high school. Look, I'll meet you half-way. After I wrap up this surgery, I'll go in to check on her and soothe your paranoia. Deal?"

I sighed again, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel. It was better than nothing. Hell, Dimitri would see it as another test of patience. "Deal," I said reluctantly. I could hardly barge into an ER and drag him away in his doctoral attire while he was in the middle of playing _Operation_- though it was a little tempting at this point.

There was a pause before Christian asked, "Are you... really okay with this?"

"No," I answered flatly and honestly. It was true. I wasn't. I liked Christian well-enough (most days) but not when it came to Lissa. In fact, a stupid part of me felt jealous of the fact he could stick by her in my stead. When we were younger, I had been worried his bad influence would rub off on her; now, I was just worried he'd replace me at her fancy parties when she strolled in with her plus 1. "But I sort of have to be okay with it at this point."

"Oh, I'm so honored by your faith in me, Hathaway." I smirked a little in spite of myself. On his end, I heard a static-laced PA announcement calling him to the floor of the operating room. He made a swift goodbye and promptly hung up. I let it go and drove home, my shoulders feeling lighter with one problem momentarily knocked down. It better have earned me bonus points with the big guy in the clouds.

That elation, however, came crashing down somewhat when I got home and stood in front of my doorstep, pausing with the key in the lock. I sensed something out of the norm instantly. My prudence slammed into place. Cautiously, I sniffed. A weird smell was wafting from the inside out- I knew, because I also checked Jill's door, and my other neighbor's apartment, but there was nothing from their end. The source of the smell was definitely my place. It wasn't a flare, or some deadly toxin ready to greet me. No, it smelled like... home cooking and cashew chicken. My confusion deepened. Did I own a frying pan? Did I even know someone who could _cook_?

Guards up, I warily unlocked my door and peeked in, armed with my key like a makeshift pointed weapon. I didn't know what I expected, maybe an accidental shanking of Gordon Ramsey, but it certainly wasn't the scene in front of me. I blinked, dumb-founded. Granted, it wasn't really that abnormal; in fact, it was down-right conventional, and could have been pulled out of any bad American sitcom. Dimitri was sitting cross-legged on my couch in casual clothing, face shaved and hair tied at the base of his neck, while watching mindless TV and eating Chinese food. Glancing up and seeing me return, he nodded. "You're home late," he remarked. He was so nonchalant, my expression morphed into further perplexity as I straightened.

"Um yeah. Just some, you know work and- I'm sorry, can you explain this set-up first?"

A rare half-smile hinted at his lips as he turned down the volume, drowning out Larry King. "The Chinese food? You had it in the freezer."

"I kind of meant the everything, not just the celebratory dinner."

"Well, I told you I didn't want to receive another one of those phone calls from last night, correct? This is the best way to maintain your safety. And your sofa truly is comfortable, when it boils down to it."

"You're planning another slumber party?" I demanded, clarifying before I got my hopes up.

"Logically, it's the best way to keep you safe," he repeated. "So, yes. I can hardly leave you alone after you received those indicators. I'll keep post until we figure out who sent the flare and why. We can also go over our current cases in our spare time, so we're killing two birds with one stone, so to speak."

If that was the case, I suddenly hoped the flare's perpetrator would remain anonymous. Not that I'd ever let on to that. I stared at him for a heartbeat longer before giving up, shaking my head in defeat, a small smile of my own beginning to form. For a moment, I wondered again whether to count this twist of fate as a score for me or another score for the universe's sick sense of humor. But then, suddenly, a part of me- a much smarter part of me- did what I should have done long ago and declared "to hell with it". I could roll with whatever kinks in my path fate decided to throw at me. Shrugging off my blazer, and all the equipment that came with the job from my gun to my badge, I found a fuzzy warmth fluttering in my stomach. It was a nice change from that ice block in my gut most of these days. Flopping down on the couch next to him, I inspected his handiwork, scanning over the mini, exotic buffet. Why did he have to be good at everything? "Damn, Comrade. If you can cook like this every night, I just might have to keep you around," I warned. He didn't seem to protest that idea too much. Revering in the absolute normality of it all, I leaned back and ate my portion of cashew chicken next to Dimitri, soaking in the subtle awesomeness of the situation while deciding that, despite everything else, my life didn't suck _that _much.


	6. Side Chapter: Bystander's Perspective

**Victor Dashkov's POV**

Solitary confinement is not a pleasant thing. Of course, that's the point of it; to lock me in a small, dark nook for the rest of the world to forget my transgressions and for me to suffer, confined with blank walls to keep me company and mourn my life choices. Not that I ever do. It's simply not a pleasant thing. Boring on the face of it, and even more so as an experience. But it is tolerable. And tolerable is all I need.

Lying on my cot, I watched calmly as the clock hands ticked toward the new hour. Eventually, it hit the target. 4PM. Right on cue, I heard the heavy latches slide and my cell door groaned open. I peeked up at the prison guard standing in the iron mar. She's new. New is always refreshing. She may have been new and female, but authority radiated off her, her opal eyes stormy and clouded with resentment. She had a square jaw and silent bedside manner, but she made sure her jagged edge toward me wasn't a secret. She loathed me. Well, perhaps not me, but my actions and the monster dwelling inside my frail body. _As if she doesn't have her own personal demons_, I thought. Mine just happened to have more creative outlets than others.

By instinct, my gaze flickered to her neck. Women had such beautiful necks. It had been awhile since I'd seen such a slim one with prominent collarbones underneath, highlighting her femininity and sparking a deep, dwelling longing at my fingertips. It had been awhile since my inner demons had played. It had been awhile since I'd sliced into a pretty throat like hers. I could see her jaw stiffen and the blue chords in her throat became visible, not immune to my gaze. Whether or not she wanted to say something about it, I couldn't tell. In the end, she didn't. She simply leered at me before bucking her chin, motioning outside. "Time to go."

Obediently, I got out of bed. My footsteps were soft and my lips were sealed shut as I walked over, not protesting as she handcuffed me and escorted me out of my cell alongside two other officials. They were taking me to the main section of the prison for my one hour of freedom. It was the one time I was allowed to be with the other inmates. It was also the one humane hand-down they were willing to give me, granted that I was locked in maximum security the other 23 hours of the day and I had become a stellar example of a prisoner in my time here. No fights, no verbal lashings; no disobedience or disdain toward authority nor the others. It was even enough for them to allow me in the room without a personal chaperone. I was simply subjected to the same security as the rest of them: a border patrol of policemen ringing the corners and security cameras covering from above. Still, it was a flawed system. If I wanted to break out, I could. I had proven that before. _Idiots, _I thought to myself. _All of them._

Naturally, like my guard, I didn't voice any of my thoughts. I followed silently until we reached the main section and they released me from my handcuffs. I rubbed the raw skin at my wrists before wandering through the throng of orange jumpsuits. The one benefit to this hour of freedom wasn't the interaction of lower class minds, but access to the outside world. They didn't allow windows or newspapers or magazines, but they did allow a small, square TV with news stations to keep us up-to-date and to keep boredom at bay. Released from my cell keepers and cement block, the freedom was cool in my bones, and I settled in front of the TV like every day at 4:05PM. I didn't expect much. The news, like my schedule, had become routine; but it was human nature to form soothing habits.

Not much happened the first half hour. It was mundane and dreadfully normal and my mind began to wander until someone flipped the channel and the cheerful, blonde news anchor blurred out.

And just like that, my heart stopped. Just for a moment. Just enough for endorphins to flood my system and seep into my bone marrow.

The news channel they'd switched it to was local and displayed a live police report. I recognized the speaker as the captain of homicide, a weathered and hawk-eyed woman. Dimitri Belikov hovered as her shadow, empowering an FBI presence. My lips twitched with disdain at that. But my sour edge towards him soon melted, all thoughts of the man rotting and banishing with the wind as I honed back in on the source of my stimulus. My heart thrummed again. There, in the corner alongside her team, was Rose Hathaway. Rosemarie. My Rosemarie. I stared unblinking at the screen, TV static humming, poor focus distorting her beauty. Even that wasn't enough to smother it. Her dark, curly hair shone in the sunlight and her dark, long-lashed eyes were striking, her Turkish blood giving her an extra, exotic edge. From any other bystander's perspective, she was a strong woman and apt police detective. I knew her better, though. There was a purple under her eyes that couldn't be hidden by concealer. Shadows welled in her dark irises, haunted. She hadn't slept. From her paler skin and thinner body, I guessed she hadn't slept in a long time. My lips parted at that, before curling upward. _She's been dreaming of me_.

I watched her again, beast and prey. I watched how she reacted to each word, I watched her body movement, and I watched her eyes. The more I watched her, however, the more my smile slipped. She may have dreamed of me, but it was daylight now, and in her eyes, nothing bad happened in daylight. She didn't think of me now. Instead, whenever her gaze flickered to Belikov, her eyes lightened and my mark on her vanished. For a few seconds, she didn't look haunted. Annoyance twinged at my subconscious and my eyes narrowed at that. The inner workings and my lurking demons began to stir.

Like my guard, I didn't necessarily loathe Belikov, but I loathed his actions and how he could interfere with the web of fear I had spent years threading in my beautiful Rose's mind. I loathed him. My demons loathed him.

Because the truth is, we all have our personal demons, and we all search for someone whose demons play well with ours. Tragically, Rosemarie's harmonized with mine. Even more tragically, she was never aware of it. Maybe she was now; the last night I'd seen her, when she'd pointed a gun at my skull, her eyes were wild and the shadows dancing across her face had told me that dark knot in the back of her mind had burst and her demons were ready to play. She had controlled herself at the last second. But to control it, you have to be aware of its presence. If she hadn't been aware of her monster before, she was now.

But staring at her through a thin screen, there was no trace of that primal darkness. Not when she looked at him. I sneered. I was more of a fan of killing women, but the idea of slicing his neck wasn't a repulsive one.

"That your girl Dashkov?" a sudden voice asked, cutting into my thoughts. I looked up to find two inmates strolling to me. I knew them, but didn't like them. Both were obnoxiously arrogant. I only interacted with them because they could be helpful at times, especially regarding to intel; you don't dispose of usable tools. My return demeanor was polite and curt as always, my sneer sobering in a flash. Of course I didn't bother answering the question. What a stupid question it would be if they expected a response. "She's as fine as ever," the one continued, whistling. "You know she's working on that White Knight case? The one that's got the whole city doing back flips?"

"I heard," I answered simply.

"And the Strigoi case on top of that. She's been on that ever since she threw your ass back in jail."

"I heard that as well."

The two looked at each other. Somehow, my blunt answers had sparked a competitive atmosphere. "Really?" he probed. "Have you heard this one yet? Just leaked through yesterday. Apparently, your detective girl got a flare at her doorstep, like the kind she used to get away from you. Freaked her out."

I didn't bother asking how they knew this. All it took was one person from PD to relay the rumor to a security guard, and one prisoner to overhear it. It was either that, or just as simply, the culprit behind the stunt was spreading word of it. Either way, that culprit wasn't me, and interest tugged at me. "Is that so?" I mused.

His lip twitched, apparently pleased I hadn't dismissed this scrap of information. "Know anything about it?"

"No," I said slowly. "Or perhaps I simply forgot that I'd instructed that of my apprentice," I added on, not batting an eyelash at the lie, knowing that sort of thing was wildfire to them and they'd be set on spreading it. I couldn't care less. Infants that played with wildfire usually got burned, and I knew it was enough to usher them away.

Sure enough, the two shared a look and laughed, relaying cliché phrases like "you all right, man" and slapping me on the shoulder before continuing to walk. I exhaled under my breath. Idiots. Of course there was no way that was my doing. Leaving a flare on her doorstep? Sloppy. Who's to say she'd even get it? However, if that rumor was true, a flare would indeed "freak her out". I knew from experience how powerful small mementos like that could be. My thin smile returned. _She's been dreaming of me_, I thought again. And I now knew she would dream of me tonight, with or without Belikov's presence; intense fear could trump any solace. That in itself sent a thrill through me.

However, at the same time I also realized it wasn't on my accord. _I _wasn't really the one sparking fear in her. My ghost was, and it had sunken back into her frontal lobe only because someone else had tried to scare her. Someone else had tried to scare my darling Rose; but that someone wasn't truly me. Behind my docile appearance, my blood started to boil and I began to see red, a sense of possession washing over me. I had to curl my fingers just to relax the stiffened joints. This was no place to let my cover slip. This was no time to let my demons run amuck, even if they wanted to.

Calming them, I told them it would serve us just as well. She would be on edge. Her mind would inevitably drift back to me, and it would drive her mad in a different sense, to the point she'd eventually come to see me in person to confront the matter. I would see her porcelain neck again and I could once again envision painting the blue chords in her throat red. It was these revelations that made my breathing come easier and let my demons curl up and sleep again. They were hibernating until they could see my sweet Rosemarie again- until they could play with her demons again. These were the bargaining chips that would let me sleep alongside my demons tonight. Still, the knot of anger was there, brandishing a mark on my subconscious. For everything that I am, I'm a man of principle. I defend what's mine.

And right then, there was only one truth about Rose Hathaway I was honed in on: she wasn't theirs to terrify. She was mine.

* * *

**To clarify: this is something I've been wanting to do for a long time as a mini, side chapter; taking on the killer's POV is a common occurrence in the Rizzoli&Isles book series, so I wanted to toy with it here (and it will have future relevance). Don't worry, I'll be posting a real chapter soon. Naturally, that will continue being told through Rose's point of view. Thank you guys for sticking with me. Kitty face.**


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